


summer, golden and bright

by my_little_prongsies



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Minor panic attack, Musician!R, Politician!E, Rated teen for swearing, bisexual!R, brief reference to past drug use, famous au, like ridiculously cute, musician au, oh and its fluffy, some blood but its not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_little_prongsies/pseuds/my_little_prongsies
Summary: Grantaire has steered clear of any romantic relationships for three years, not wanting to have to put the other through dating someone in the spotlight. But then Courfeyrac drags him unwillingly to a Gala and he meets the storm that is Enjolras. All self-preservation goes out the window very quickly and he has to navigate a new secret infatuation that is quickly growing into something more, while still being in the closet to the rest of the world.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 148





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I know that the whole famous au has been done before, but it's something I've been wanting to do for ages, so here is my version :)
> 
> Warnings for language and brief mentions of past drug use. There's also what I would consider a minor panic attack in the second chapter, so watch out for that.
> 
> Enjoy!

It begins with Courfeyrac. As most things do—he is the instigator of many adventures between them and, consequently, of a number of Grantaire’s hit songs, as Courfeyrac likes to remind him whenever he grumbles about said adventures.

They’re on tour. Well, technically.

It’s the end of the tour and Valjean was considerate enough to schedule it in their own city, so he is finally able to sleep in his own bed and relieve Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta of cat sitting duty after months of being confined to claustrophobic tour busses and uncomfortable hotel beds (fun fact: five-star hotels do not necessitate a good mattress).

But as soon as Beyoncé starts blaring from his phone, a picture of Courfeyrac’s ass (long story) lighting up the screen, he can tell it’s going to be a long night that decidedly doesn’t involve passing out for fourteen hours straight.

“I’ve met someone,” Courfeyrac says as soon as he picks up the phone. Courfeyrac reserves phone calls for Serious Matters (capital letters necessary) while less important matters, such as tour information or song ideas, are relegated to a text message.

“You do that often,” Grantaire replies, settling back against his bedrest and petting his cat that had jumped up beside him (named Ziggy because he has little imagination and David Bowie is a fucking icon, okay?). His body instantly relaxes, melting into his duvet.

“R,” Courfeyrac whines and he pulls the phone away from his ear until he hears it stop. “He’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Tall and handsome and a _nerd_. His name is so beautiful and his voice heavenly. And, my God, his tattoos—I was drooling just looking at them. He’s honestly better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I’m having a strange sense of déjà vu,” he says, smirk starting to crawl across his face. He gets this phone call about once a month, where Courfeyrac insists he’s met the love of his life and is going to live happily ever after.

“This is different,” Courfeyrac presses. “Really.”

Grantaire decides to humour him, half his attention focused on where Ziggy is starting to munch on his toes. “What’s his name?”

“Combeferre. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

He hums—there is something poetic about the name, rolling off his tongue with ease as he softly repeats it. “And how did you meet him?”

There’s an indistinguishable mumble on the other side of the line and he quirks an eyebrow, making a questioning sound with obvious amusement.

“I—I might have followed him into a library,” Courfeyrac eventually relents, words running over each other.

“You what?”

Courfeyrac heaves a sigh. “I saw him walk past the Musain and he was so beautiful that I got up before I even realised I had and followed him to the library down the road. I was entranced, R, _bewitched_. And then he turned around and asked me why I was stalking him and the only thing my brain could reply with was that he was the most beautiful person I had ever seen and instead of being freaked out like any normal person would be, he _laughed_ and said he doubt that because surely I had look in a mirror before, and seriously, R, I died. Right there, on the spot—I’m not actually talking to you right know. You’re speaking to the ghost of Courfeyrac because my body is definitely a pile of mush in the middle of the university library right now.”

“Woah,” Grantaire laughs as Courfeyrac releases a breath, loud over the phone. “That guy is smooth.”

“I know. I don’t even want to say I’m in love this time because, honestly, it’s too good to be true.” Courfeyrac sounds forlorn and he can picture the pout he is most definitely sporting. “Anyway,” he continues, cheering up again, “he invited me to this thing tonight. A charity gala. Of sorts—I don’t really know, it was hard to pay attention when those divine eyes were staring right into my soul—and I said I would come.”

Grantaire can hear the apprehension building in Courfeyrac’s voice. “And?” he exhales, resigning himself to the fact that he won’t be able to spend the night tucked away in bed watching reruns of Parks and Rec.

“I might have said you’ll come too?” Courfeyrac’s voice comes out as a squeak. “Apparently, it’s this thing he and his friends organised and they want as many people to come as possible and I checked, it’s not publicised, so you don’t have to worry about that but I really want you there, R. I need you.”

“When you say gala…?” he trails off, grimacing towards his wardrobe.

“Suit and tie,” Courfeyrac answers. “I know you’ve got plenty of those.”

“I’ll be there,” he says, dragging himself off his bed, disrupting Ziggy in the process, who mewls indignantly in response. “You owe me.”

Courfeyrac lets out a squeal, saying, “Anything! I’ll be over in an hour!” before hanging up, leaving him to confront his wardrobe in despair.

Courfeyrac is his drummer. All 5’7” of his immeasurable energy carrying Grantaire every single night. He wasn’t Grantaire’s first drummer, no, that privilege goes to Montparnasse, who had waltzed into his life when he was still singing in pubs and bars, in the process of working through his first album, and quickly introduced him to the world of parties and drugs and bad decisions. Courfeyrac had come after that, when Valjean had fired Montparnasse after a particularly scandalous event and had wanted a fresh start, bringing in Bahorel and Éponine as well. Grantaire was left a mess with a million pieces for Courfeyrac and his new friends (now family) to pick up.

Courfeyrac, he vehemently reminds himself, who he owes his salvaged career, his sanity, his _life_ too, so he really shouldn’t punch him right now, but, God, is it tempting.

They’re at the Gala, in a large ballroom full of people who look at least thirty years his senior, a few young people scattered throughout. Everyone’s dressed to the nines—fitted suits and sleek dresses that look like they’ve come straight off the red carpet. It reminds him of every press release, every formal event that he’s been too and he can attest to the fact that they are the worst part of being a musician, so at this current moment, the resentment for his friend is paramount.

Courfeyrac bounds on his toes next to him, scanning the crowd from their spot at the entrance. Grantaire places a hand on his shoulder, pressing him down as he checks their names off a list, the server, a boy who looks far too young to be there, finding them right at the bottom of the list. He sends them a grin.

“Ah, Combeferre told me to watch out for you guys,” he says, motioning to the other end of the hall, where a stage has been set up. “You’ll find him over there somewhere. They’re meant to start speeches in about fifteen minutes, so don’t dawdle.”

He nods his thanks as Courfeyrac pulls on his hand, heading straight for the stage, determination sparking in his eyes.

“Courfeyrac,” a man says as they approach the stage, delighted surprise taking over his face. He’s tall, very tall, with dark skin and glasses, wearing an ill-fitted classic black suit and Courfeyrac is enamoured, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I wasn’t sure if you would come,” the man, Combeferre, if Courfeyrac’s adoration is anything to go by, continues.

“Well, here I am,” Courfeyrac replies, stars in his eyes, and Grantaire can’t help himself from muttering, “Charming,” earning a poke to his ribs.

Combeferre gracefully hops down from the stage, a hand coming up to fix his glasses. “I’m glad,” he says simply with nothing to hide. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find a table for you without splitting you up. The turnout has been much higher than expected. You would think everyone would have the decency to reply to the RSVP, but alas, money does not equal manners.”

Grantaire tries valiantly to hold in a snort (no one in the last three decades, _at least_ , has used the word alas in casual conversation), but he apparently fails at keeping his amusement subtle because Combeferre finally tears his eyes away from Courfeyrac to look at him, holding out a hand.

“Hello, it’s Grantaire, right? I’m Combeferre.”

Grantaire takes his hand and when Combeferre smiles, he can’t help but be charmed. This man, whose suit is obviously borrowed and falls of his shoulders wrong, who uses long ago forgotten words, is completely at ease with himself and Grantaire, who has struggled with years of self-loathing eating away at him bit-by-bit, has to admire him.

He sends a smile back. “I figured,” he says, eyes shooting to Courfeyrac for a moment, who is grinning widely, eyes locked on Combeferre.

Combeferre just huffs out a laugh, face lighting up. “I thought you guys could just stay with us? We have a small area in the back where we’ll be staying when we have breaks. I’ll take you there now.”

He clambers back onto the stage, uncaring of the effect it has on his suit and Courfeyrac, who cares deeply about fashion and in another (taller) life would have probably been a model, looks stricken. Grantaire laughs, pulling him towards the stairs situated next to the stage and following Combeferre, who leads them behind a curtain, through a short hallway and into a room, filled with a couch, a table full of papers, chairs surrounding it, and three pairs of eyes blinking up at them.

“Perfect, you’re here,” Combeferre says, ushering them in and motioning to the others in the room. “This is Feuilly, Marius and Cosette. Guys, this is Courfeyrac and Grantaire. I said they would be coming?”

Feuilly and Cosette both smile brightly at them, offering greetings, while Marius gapes up at him, eyes wide.

He has never gotten use to that, the fascination with which people look at him, and he doesn’t think he ever will, preferring to believe it’s still that moment where he was new to the music world and people knew his songs, but not his face.

Cosette elbows Marius, shrugging guiltily at him when Marius doesn’t close his mouth, only blinking a couple of times. He waves away her apology, an awkward silence descending upon them.

“So, uh,” Courfeyrac says after what feels like forever, looking up at Combeferre, “what’s the Gala actually about? I’m not sure I caught it earlier.”

Combeferre lights up again, walking over to the table and picking up a leaflet, handing it to Courfeyrac. Grantaire peers over his shoulder, reading.

“‘Putting an end to homelessness,’” he recites, scorn lacing his words. “And a charity gala’s going to do that?”

Courfeyrac shoots him a look, warning him, but before he can say anything, there’s a voice from behind them.

“We know this one event isn’t going to magically fix the problem, but it’s a step.”

He turns towards the door—the whole room does—to find a god-like figure in the doorway, complete with a disdainful glare trained on him.

“You can’t surely believe this will actually do anything?” Grantaire gestures vaguely to the ballroom full of elites behind the god, who scowls more, crossing his arms with indignation. He’s wearing a dark red suit, this one actually fitted and doing incredible things for his physique. On anyone else the red would look ridiculous, but with his tanned skin, blonde hair styled back and startingly blue eyes, it’s _ridiculously_ hot.

“Small progress is still progress and if we can raise money from people who are donating it for the purpose of making themselves feel important, while also attempt to educate them and broaden their knowledge then it’s worth the effort.” He narrows his eyes, searching Grantaire’s face. “Who are you?”

There’s a quiet groan from Combeferre and he spares a glance to see the man’s eyes are trained skyward, as though praying to a higher deity. “Um, Grantaire,” he replies, eyes back on the blonde, who looks quizzically to Combeferre, then back to him, face strained as though he’s thinking hard.

Recognition sparks in his eyes (in time with Feuilly’s muttered, “there it is,”) and he finally steps into the room properly. “Sorry, I was being rude. Ferre mentioned that you two might be here,” he says, nodding to Courfeyrac, his eyes locked with Grantaire as he holds out an elegant hand. “I’m Enjolras.”

He’s hesitant to shake his hand, knowing that some part of him won’t want to let go if he does.

Courfeyrac takes the proffered hand, correctly reading his reluctance (three years of long tours, road trips, shared hotel rooms and living in each other’s pockets means they can read each other inside out). “Courfeyrac,” he introduces, pulling Enjolras’ attention away, allowing Grantaire to let loose a breath. “Thanks for letting us come. Are you going to be speaking?”

Surprise flashes across Enjolras’ features. “Yeah. How did you know?”

“You seem the type,” Courfeyrac grins, smug.

Enjolras doesn’t seem to know how to answer, but is saved by Feuilly standing up and checking his watch, saying, “Speaking of, we should get out there.”

“Right, of course,” Enjolras says, following Feuilly out the door. When he gets there, he turns, looking back to Grantaire and Courfeyrac, a hand on the doorframe, his stern façade slipping for a moment as he smiles. It’s small, barely there, but eases the tension out of his face, small wrinkles appearing. “Thank-you for coming, I’ll see you guys after.” With that, he continues, disappearing down the hallway.

“And that’s Enjolras,” Combeferre says, belatedly.

Courfeyrac lets out a laugh, joyous. “I love him,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at Grantaire, who glowers back. “And I think R does, too.”

He receives a smack to the back of the head for that as Combeferre leads them out of the room, chuckling.

Cosette and Marius guide them to the back of the hall, Combeferre excusing himself to follow Enjolras and Feuilly. Grantaire finds Cosette to be the loveliest person he has ever met, made up of kind words laced with enthusiasm and wit and a stunning smile that turns Marius doe-eyed every time. Marius gets over his shock, striking up a conversation easily that he finds surprisingly intelligent compared to his initial assessment of the man. Words flow freely between the four of them until the lights dim, a hush sweeping through the lavish crowd.

Enjolras is behind the podium, in the middle of the stage, and Grantaire swears he is the only person who could look that good under the harsh lights. He resigns himself to listening to the idealistic preach that’s about to be spewed, settling against the wall.

And then Enjolras opens his mouth.

Now, he has never been one for politics, never been one to advocate for any belief, always evaded questions in interviews that would define his political views. And he wants to believe a better world is possible, that issues as prevalent and ingrained within society as homelessness can be fixed, but he’s been fucked over by said world, by the people who are supposed to mean the most to him, at least twelve times too many for any hope to remain inside him.

But the words that cascade out of Enjolras inspire exactly that. Hope. They inspire freedom and faith and acceptance and peace for all, reaching further than the issue of homelessness, as though he’s gathered a room full of stuffy, cold people under the guise of allowing them to prove that they’re rich enough to be invited, and instead fulfilling them with ideals and a hope that didn’t exist before. His words spur the crowd to start hurriedly writing down cheques, talking animatedly with their table companions.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Courfeyrac whispers into his ear once Enjolras steps away from the podium, pride radiating off him in waves. Grantaire tears his gaze away, looking at Courfeyrac, who has wonder sparking in his eyes.

He nods, silent, not trusting himself to respond with a coherent answer, because Courfeyrac may be able to read him well, but he doesn’t need to know the full extent of the turmoil running through him. “That’s one charming man,” he says eventually. If Enjolras could even be considered a man—he barely looks old enough to be out of college, eyes bright and face effervescent, as though the world hasn’t dealt him any damage yet.

Courfeyrac eyes him and he looks away, nodding at the stage as Combeferre takes the podium, effectively distracting his friend.

Where Enjolras was awe-inspiring—passion and action tied up in one—Combeferre is calm, talking everyone through how best to help and any work that can be done beyond this evening, mixing his words with jokes and small anecdotes, charming the crowd with ease.

Courfeyrac sighs dreamily and Grantaire pats his shoulder, knowing exactly how he feels.

Cosette turns to them as applause reverberates around the room, Combeferre stepping back, the lights turning on again and music starting to play softly. “So,” she says, edging around the side of the room and motioning for them to follow, “how do you guys know Combeferre?”

“I met him this morning,” Courfeyrac answers, a smile taking over his face.

“Oh?” Cosette raises her eyebrows. “Must have made an impression. Ferre isn’t usually one to invite near strangers on such short notice.”

“I can be very charismatic,” he replies and Grantaire snorts, picturing every adventure he’s gotten into because of said charisma. (There’s been a lot—they’ve seen every weird and wacky inch of each city and town they’ve been to, a feat only accomplished thanks to Courfeyrac.)

Combeferre and Enjolras are in front of them then, Feuilly trailing behind as an elderly woman talks to him, handing him note after cheque after note as he gets more and more flustered. Grantaire watches as Combeferre heads straight for Courfeyrac, talking eagerly and flushing when Courfeyrac compliments him, until he catches Enjolras’ eye, who is focused on him, eyebrows furrowed. He raises his own eyebrows in silent question, masking his surprise, and Enjolras just starts, giving him a small smile and turning to talk to Cosette and Marius, asking for an honest opinion on his speech.

He interrupts before he even realises and then they’re in an argument, discussing every single detail of the speech. It’s only when Enjolras’ eyes turn from acknowledging to resentful, anger finally slipping through his impervious exterior as he pulls Grantaire by the wrist, forcing him down into some vacated seats and keeping him there for the next two hours, even pulling out his speech from his pocket to dissect together, that he realises how truly fucked he is and resents Courfeyrac for dragging him along.

(He really doesn’t, but he’s resolutely trying to convince himself so.)

**Grantaire** @therealr 1.34 am

remind me to never allow @courfeyrocks to take me out again

He didn’t actually think he was fucked. Not entirely. He figured it was one night. Just one night of talking and arguing and soaking up every single detail of this magical being in front of him and then the next day it would be out of sight, out of mind. And it was.

Almost.

He sleeps in. It’s the first week in months that he doesn't have an interview or a city to explore or _anything_ and his last three shows aren’t until the weekend, so he’s going to take his sweet, precious time and use it how he knows best. Sleeping.

After dragging himself around his apartment, feet shuffling on the cold tiles, feeding a mewling Ziggy, taking one of the longest showers of his life and tugging a beanie over his drying curls, he’s somewhat presentable to the world, so goes to Jehan’s.

Jehan is the only person he still speaks to from his childhood, the two of them fleeing their small town for the big city as soon as they could and sharing an old battered twin bed for months until the money slowly started trickling in, from Grantaire’s part time job as a waiter and Jehan’s tutoring at the college they attended.

When he gets to Jehan’s, he’s greeted with an overbearing hug that squeezes the breath out of him, an endless stream of chatter and a warm mug of tea thrust into his hands, instantly thawing his frozen fingers. He has to smile when around them, the exhaustion and stress slowly melting away from him as they launch into another story, their voice melodic as they skip around the room.

He almost forgets about him.

He eventually goes home, hours later after the sun has set and they’ve tucked into day old pizza. The need for sleep after months of none forces him to say his goodbyes and fall into bed as soon as he makes it through the door.

When he closes his eyes all he can see is blue—astonishingly crystal clear blue that sparked with anger and hope and love, so many emotions so quickly that he couldn’t keep track of them. He groans, flinging an arm over his face in despair.

He can’t. He just _can’t_.

He’s been in love twice before (not that he’s calling this _love_ , but, God, does it feel like it). Once when he was still in high school and Irma Boissy showed up to class one day, all curvy lines and soft laughs. They had spent hours talking, day after day, his entire world becoming her until suddenly she left, with only a note and a fractured Grantaire left behind. His first album centred around her, from the joy to the heartache, and she had since reached out, mending broken bridges.

Then there had been Floreal, a singer like him and introduced by Montparnasse. He'd fallen into the same trap, turning his whole life into her, except this time the world was watching and when it ended, as was inevitable, the fall out had been even worse and it had taken him longer to pull himself back together. He didn’t dedicate his second album to her, refusing to give her, the world, the satisfaction of it. He didn’t want to define himself as the romantic fool who only wrote about love.

So the album was about everything else. About Montparnasse and the world he brought, about Jehan and the magic that followed them, about his old and new friends becoming a one, about his fucking _cat_ because people underestimate the value of pets, and it had done so much better. Breaking record sales, boosting him to the top of the charts and sky-rocketing his career. It was those songs that had travelled with him these past few months, filling him with pride every single night.

Despite all that, the media fixated on his (non-existent) love life. Any time he so much as talked to the opposite sex, whether they were young, old, famous, or unknown, his picture was on the frontpage the next day, proclaiming all sorts of dark secrets Grantaire doesn’t know how they come up with. He was named a player, who went through women like candy and anyone who rendezvoused with him was a victim of his wild ways. There was even a considerable amount of people, fans included, that were convinced he was in a torrid love affair with Éponine, something they both laughed over.

(He hasn’t felt the need to mention that he’s bisexual. There should really be tabloids about every _person_ he talks to, but he doesn’t want to add fuel to the already impressively high flame, especially considering the existing stigma around bisexual people.)

So he forces those blue eyes and that angelic voice out of his mind, refusing to put himself through the inevitable pain, and falls asleep, Ziggy curling up next to him.

The next few days pass in a blur as he fills his hours, distracting himself. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta invite him over for dinner and they spend hours curled around each other on the couch, watching reruns of Doctor Who and he laughs so much that his belly aches by the time he falls asleep, claiming their couch for the night. He goes to the gym each morning (read: midday), dragging Bahorel along with him, because exercise has always been his way to not think and punching that grinning man when boxing brings far more joy than it should. Éponine barges into his apartment one night (she is one of the very few that have access to his key, security code and is friendly with the clerk downstairs), demanding they watch the new Netflix documentary because she’s in the mood for murder and shitting on fucked up people.

He convinces himself that he’s over the Gala, he really does, and he believes himself. It was a blip in his week, his month, year, and bares no impact on the rest of his life.

He was so close to not thinking about it, not remembering it, but when he wakes up the morning of his Saturday show, there’s two messages on his phone and all that well-earned progress goes out the window, along with his self-preservation and realistic thinking.

The first one is from Courfeyrac, marked 8.34 am.

 _trust me this is good for u_ is all it says and he feels apprehension creep inside him, building as he opens the second one.

It’s from an unknown number, marked 8.45 am.

_Hello, it’s Enjolras. From the other night? I feel as though I came off quite rude and I wanted to apologise. I found our discussion really useful and have even changed my speech for an upcoming event in a couple of weeks. Thank-you for the tips :)_

He’s still staring at his phone, bewildered (on two counts because Enjolras _texted_ him, oh God, but also apparently thought his pointed badgering were tips, which is just as surprising), when another text comes through, again from the unknown number.

_Sorry (again) if I woke you. Ferre just informed me that normal people aren’t awake before ten on the weekend and you had a concert last night so are probably fast asleep._

A smile spreads across his face and he types out a reply.

_nah its fine_

_for both apologies. im glad you found my cynicism helpful, usually it just ends it annoyance_

His sits up properly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and watching the three dots bounce up and down, entranced.

_Seriously, I did! Everyone I work with already agrees with everything I’m arguing for, so it’s rare that I get actual feedback. I really appreciate it._

“This guy is ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath and Ziggy eyes him in response from where he’s curled near his feet, judging him. Grantaire can't argue with his cat's assessment.

_no worries. happy to help_

A while goes by without a response, the three dots disappearing, so Grantaire gets up, trudging out to his kitchen and turning on his coffee machine. These are the times that he’s incredibly grateful for his career and can forget about the unpleasant aspects because he can actually afford quality coffee and no longer has to survive off filtered dregs like when he was living with Jehan.

He sets down the mug on the coffee table and turns on his television, scrolling through the channels aimlessly and trying to convince himself that he’s not waiting for his phone to buzz. All traces of playing it cool are immediately abandoned when it finally does and he lunges to find where it’s fallen between some cushions (another side effect of being successful means that as soon as he had enough money to buy an apartment, he let his friends decorate it and Jehan insisted that there were never too many cushions).

_I was wondering if you would be interested in meeting up? I know you must be busy but I really did enjoy our conversation._

He apparently gapes at his phone for so long that two more messages come through before he can even begin to formulate a response.

_If you’re busy, don’t worry! Or just not interested, I completely understand. I just thought I should try._

_Courfeyrac says that you need to close your mouth and say yes already, you idiot. That’s a direct quote._

_courfs with you?_

_Yeah, that’s how I got your number. I live with Ferre and he came over for breakfast._

He laughs at that, grinning. Courfeyrac is infamous for adamantly refusing to leave his bed before a reasonable time (which is eleven for him) after a show and causing the whole tour to be late to their next destination. It’s telling how much he likes Combeferre if he willing to be awake before nine.

He throws all caution to the wind, typing out a reply.

_are you busy tonight?_

_Yes, actually. Courf gave us tickets to your concert._

_then ill see you there_

_Sounds like a plan :)_

Despite all his protestations that he was going to forget about Enjolras and his eyes and his voice, despite the hours of effort he put into forgetting they ever met, he can’t stop the butterflies from turning his stomach over and over and spends the rest of the day in excited anticipation for that night, a smile refusing to leave his face.

**Courfeyrac** @courfeyrocks 7.08 pm

2nd last show for @therealr tour n so sad cos its been the best months of my life but also pumped cos our friends r coming!!!

Apparently no one had the forethought to inform Grantaire that Enjolras’ hair was actually a fucking halo, causing him to stumble of a lyric in the middle of his show when he spots him and Combeferre near the edge of the stage. He hadn’t been trying to look for them, he really hadn’t, but in the split second when the lights faced the crowd rather than him, he found them and the gloriousness atop Enjolras’ head. His loose golden curls were a stark difference to the gelled back, tame style he had for the Gala and as soon as Grantaire sees them, he knows there’s no coming back.

“Sorry,” he laughs into the microphone, thankful that he’s known for talking a lot during his gigs and quite a bit during the actual songs. Courfeyrac, Éponine and Bahorel are used to going along with his interruptions. “I thought I saw Apollo incarnate. Just a trick of the light—I’d rather not have the God of music witnessing me butcher his love.”

Laugher ripples through the crowds, along with a fair few cries, and he grins, running a hand through the curls that have fallen over his face. “I know, I know, enough with the self-deprecating jokes. This is the year of self-love!” There’s only a hint of sarcasm in his voice, barely detectable.

A cheer sounds, infinitely louder than the laughter, and when he nods to Éponine, who has been riffing the song with Courfeyrac and Bahorel, they launch into the chorus, thankfully making it through to the end with no more stumbles.

As soon as their set’s finished (including an encore that has left his head ringing) and they’re off stage, Courfeyrac appears in front of him, a manic grin taking over his face. “Apollo?” he questions, humour lacing his voice.

“I blame you.” Grantaire points at him because Courfeyrac had every opportunity to inform him of the state of Enjolras’ hair but chose not to. Éponine and Bahorel exchange curious glances, which he ignores, and Courfeyrac just cackles, running off presumably to find Combeferre.

Enjolras meets him outside when he’s finally able to make it out of the building. He had successfully evaded the pointed questions from Bahorel and Éponine, but when Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta and Jehan had made their way backstage, quickly cheering him for his performance before launching into their own questions, he had been forced to relent, giving them a brief explanation and emphasising that, “this was nothing to get excited about, please don’t badger me about it.”

His friends were great, really they were, because Musichetta just shrugged, saying that he comes to them when he’s ready, the others all nodding.

It’s nearly an hour since the show finished before he makes it outside. Between his friends, getting pulled aside by Valjean and getting past security, he’s taken so long that he’s surprised when Enjolras is still waiting for him, sitting on an old bench, in the exact spot that Courfeyrac had texted he would be. Even the shitty light from the streetlamp makes his hair look like it’s shining.

“Hi,” he says and Enjolras looks up from his phone, a smile gracing his features. Grantaire’s stomach flutters—this man is far too perfect to be real.

“Hey,” Enjolras replies, standing up and his smile is so soft and warm that Grantaire has trouble breathing.

“Um,” he says, inwardly praising his own eloquence, “thanks for coming.” It comes out more as a question than anything and Enjolras chuckles, wrinkles appearing in the corner of his eyes.

“No worries,” Enjolras says, stepping forward and, oh no, that is not allowed because now his face is closer and he has _freckles_. “You were brilliant,” he continues, adding when Grantaire scoffs, “Seriously. I’ve never been one to enjoy concerts, they’re always so loud and uncomfortable, but you were mesmerising.”

“Um,” he says (again, like an idiot, really showing his true colours here) and searches for a topic because he cannot handle this, “I know this 24/7 café that’s usually pretty quiet this time of night, if you want some food?”

Enjolras looks amused, not fooled by what he would consider a very smooth segue. “I would love some food,” he replies after a moment and Grantaire nods, setting off down the street, the café being close enough that it was reasonable to walk.

They walk in silence and he thinks it’s awkward but whenever he glances over at Enjolras, he looks completely at ease, hands in his pockets as he looks around him, admiring the city.

When they make it to the Musain, Grantaire waves to the waitress on night shift. This has been his go-to place for years, whenever he wasn’t able to sleep at night or after a show, still hyped on the adrenaline. It’s small and tucked away in between a bar and tattoo parlour, innocuous and therefore paparazzi have never followed him there.

They order, Grantaire his usual of eggs on toast with black coffee, Enjolras a toasted sandwich with a coffee filled with far too much sugar and milk. (“As black as my soul,” Enjolras says with a wry smile and he finds himself snorting, surprised and delighted.)

When they sit down, Enjolras pins him with a look.

“So,” he starts, fingers laced together, resting on the table. For how late in the night it was (or early in the morning, his shows tended to run late), he still looks immaculate. “You’re going to have to forgive me, musicians have never really been on my radar and even though from what I gather there’s plenty about you on the internet, I felt it would be weird to look you up.”

“It’s rarely right anyway,” he shrugs. It’s refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t already have preconceived notions about him, especially those who still think he’s like he was three years ago, despite everything having changed.

“Did you always want to go into music?”

“Oh, no,” he laughs, “I mean I always sang, even from a young age, but I never thought it would ever happen—life just doesn’t work that way. I actually wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid.”

Enjolras hums, but they’re interrupted by the food arriving, falling into silence as they tuck in.

“I wanted to be a pirate,” Enjolras says after a moment, looking up from his sandwich. There’s grease running down the side of his hand from the bacon and he daintily wipes it with a napkin.

“A pirate?” Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

“Mm hmm,” he gets in reply and Enjolras’ eyes light up. “But—like a pirate who would steal loads of money off rich people and run away with it to spread it with everyone.”

“So like Robin Hood, but on water?”

Enjolras tilts his head, contemplating. “My two favourite movies growing up _were_ Robin Hood and Pirates of the Caribbean.”

He barks a laugh, putting his coffee down before he spills it. “The Disney one where he’s a fox?”

“It’s a classic,” Enjolras nods earnestly, eyeing him as he sips his own coffee. “Why an astronaut?”

“It was as far away as I could imagine.” There’s no pity in Enjolras’ eyes when he looks at him, just understanding piercing through the blue and he is grateful. “Also, space is fucking cool.”

They continue talking, long into the night and he stops keeping track of time, even though he distantly acknowledges that he has one last show the following night. He finds himself opening up far more quickly than he has in years. Even with Courfeyrac, it took many nights spent writing and creating songs together before he truly let himself relax and not worry about what was coming out of his mouth. But with Enjolras, with his kind eyes and warm laugh, it feels easy to talk. He nods when listening, every reaction written all over his face like he has no fear of hiding them. He’s enthusiastic, asking Grantaire questions, picking up on the small, seemingly insignificant details, and sliding in sardonic remarks that have him chortling every time.

In turn, he learns that Enjolras want to work in politics. That he’s interning with Senator Lamarque (when he asks who that is, it results in a thirty minute speech praising the woman) and either wants to become a political adviser or run for Senate himself. He’s known Combeferre since he was three years old, they’re probably platonic soulmates and he can already tell Courfeyrac is the third missing piece. He likes everything that is red, except tomatoes and anyone who does is just lying. This comment caused Grantaire to defend the fruit, despite his similar dislike for them, just to see Enjolras’ eyes narrow in distaste as he launches into a passionate argument.

He also learns what it’s like to witness Enjolras truly invigorated, as an endless stream leaves his mouth, working his way through every injustice that wrongs him in some way, from the indecency of how hospitality workers are treated (spurred on by a guy who came in and harassed the waitress while waiting for his coffee) to the gaping problems with capitalist societies that would take eons to overcome. It’s fucking beautiful. Enjolras’ speech at the Gala was toned down, lessened to appease the people he was appealing to, but now his unrestrained passion hits Grantaire like a brick and he’s a goner.

He is exhausted—but exhilarated, he feels as though he could stay there for hours more—by the time Enjolras checks his watch (because of course he wears a watch) and lets out a surprised noise. “Don’t you have a show tomorrow? Tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he checks his phone (it’s only on 10% and an involuntary chill runs through him—even being a famous rockstar doesn’t mean he has his life together). “I should probably be getting home.”

Enjolras stands from his armchair, waiting for Grantaire to follow, and thanks the waitress as they leave, stepping out into the brisk early morning air. He wraps his cloak around him tightly and Grantaire has the intense urge to pull him close, firmly squashing it.

“Thank-you,” Enjolras turns to him, his cheeks flushing red in the cold, “I really enjoyed this. You’re good company.”

“Uh, thanks,” he says, breath stuttering. “You, too.”

Enjolras smiles, that same sincere smile that’s been gracing his lips all evening and he can see the lyrics forming in his head. “I really want to do this again. Maybe not in the middle of the night when you have a show the next day.”

“I—” he has to consider it for a moment, only a second, but he realises that he’s past the point of return and is ready to hand over everything to this gorgeous man before him. “I would like that, too.”

He earns a beam in response and feels a grin take over his own face. “I’ll text you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes and Enjolras starts walking backwards. “Uh, are you good to get home?” He suddenly realises that he has no clue where Enjolras lives and they’re both stranded there without a car.

Enjolras nods. “I’ll take the metro,” he replies and then he’s off, leaving Grantaire staring until he turns around a corner, heart hammering wildly, the sun rising behind him.

_I want your friends to be my friends  
I'll make you breakfast in your bed  
I want it all with you  
And if I'm coming on too strong  
It's 'cause I've waited far too long  
For someone just like you_

Share Your Address by R

Five days later finds Courfeyrac at his door, for once kindly waiting for him to respond to his knocking rather than barging in unannounced, as he is wont to do.

“Okay, I’ve given you your space, let you sort through this by yourself, but I cannot wait a moment longer,” he says before Grantaire can utter a word, handing over a keep-cup of coffee and a paper bag that, from the smell, he assumes is filled with muffins, and marching past him. He turns with a flourish, smile as wild as his hair. “Spill.”

Grantaire has been expecting this. Courfeyrac has been virtually silent since Saturday, just giving him a knowing look when he turned up to the Sunday concert still half-asleep and a smile that refused to leave his face. He only texted thrice during the week (a new lowest record as Courfeyrac always has something to say), which had consisted of a praising article written about Grantaire’s tour, a selfie with Combeferre that had hearts drawn on to it, and a bunch of exclamation points (while this was given with no context, he had a pretty good idea of what it indicated).

He thanks Courfeyrac, closing the door with his heel and sitting down on his couch. Courfeyrac bounds next to him, looking at him expectantly.

“From the start,” Courfeyrac says with a slap to the knee when he doesn’t say anything, just raising an eyebrow, and takes a chocolate chip muffin for himself, biting into it. They’re fresh from the Musain and Grantaire’s mouth starts watering so he takes the other one as he begins to run through the night, trying to keep it as low-key as possible. As Courfeyrac can read him like a book, he saves himself the embarrassment of emphasising just how infatuated he is out loud.

Courfeyrac is grinning widely at him the whole time, chocolate on the corner of his mouth. “I’m so happy. Seriously. Like, I haven’t known Enjolras long, obviously, it’s been less than two weeks, which is crazy, but I’ve spent a lot of time since he and Ferre are just about joined at the hip and I don’t think I’m leaving Ferre’s side for more than three hours ever again.” He seems to realise that he’s losing track of his sentence and takes a moment before pinning Grantaire with a look, serious. “Anyway, I really like Enjolras. He’s smart, kind, has the fire of like a thousand burning suns and he knows what he wants, which is you. I think he’s good for you. You’ve shied away from any type of relationship since I met you and I think it would do you good to have some love in your life.”

“Relationships don’t fix people,” he mumbles in return, looking away.

“No,” Courfeyrac agrees, “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t good for you.”

He nods, focusing on finishing the last of his muffin and Courfeyrac reaches out, folding their hands together. “It’s not going to be easy, because it never will be for you, and I know it’s been disastrous in the past, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying again.”

“We’re talking like this is inevitably going to go somewhere.”

“From what I can tell from both you and Enjolras, I’d say it will.”

“We’ve known each other for a week,” he points out.

“Nearly two,” Courfeyrac corrects, a smirk beginning to form.

“That’s not much better.” He’s being petulant by this point.

“Stop fighting this,” Courfeyrac pouts at him, bottom lip stuck out and puppy-dog eyes in full play, blinking innocently.

“It’s in my nature,” he rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t come out half as sarcastic as he intended.

Courfeyrac just nudges him, settling in properly beside him. “This isn’t over,” he warns, before turning his attention to the TV, where the news is playing, and starts complaining loudly in a way that reminds him of Enjolras.

He finally lets himself acknowledge that this thing with Enjolras isn’t fleeting, isn’t one argument and a midnight date, and it actually _real_ when Enjolras knocks on his door a couple of weeks later, storming in before he can say even say hello, face flushed with anger.

They’ve met a few more times since the Musain, both there again and at Grantaire’s own (he doesn’t want the paparazzi to find Enjolras’ place so refuses to go there) and he still isn’t used to the passion that bursts out of Enjolras, a never-ending stream of righteousness and defiance. He doesn’t think he ever will.

Enjolras, who is currently wearing a hole into his (eccentrically loud, thanks to Jehan) rug, pacing back and forth in front of the couch, his eyebrows furrowed, mouth a thin line.

“Something troubling you?” he asks when Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just wearing down his rug more and more.

Enjolras doesn’t respond, only sparing him a short but intense glare. Grantaire would be offended but he is more than whipped when Enjolras is like this, so there’s no use trying.

“Did you know,” Enjolras starts eventually, coming to a stop in front of where Grantaire has flopped onto the couch. Enjolras’ arms are crossed, the weather still just warm enough during the day for wearing short sleeves and he is suddenly very thankful for the invention of polo shirts and that particular shade of red. “That homosexuality was officially considered a _mental illness_ and wasn’t removed from the DSM until 1973?”

He nods but Enjolras isn’t looking at him, pacing again.

“And that there was a _code_ —the Hayes code—that prohibited blatant depictions of gay men or women in media? And even when it was abolished, the majority of queer representations were depicted as villains? Evil, psychotic characters which has a clear, irrefutable consequence on the perception of the queer community and how they are treated now.” Enjolras whirls on him again, a hand flying up to run through his hair, golden curls that had been forced into submission for the work day now a mess. “Homosexuality wasn’t even fully legalised everywhere in this country until 2003. That’s not even twenty years ago!”

He pulls on Enjolras’ hand, tugging him down into the couch and Enjolras relents, collapsing as he continues his tirade. Grantaire doesn’t even bother attempting to interrupt. “And this _guy_ ,” Enjolras seethes, eyes alight, maddened, “has the audacity to say that we shouldn’t focus so much on LGBTQI+ issues, that there are other things to focus on and that we are _isolating_ the voters, when Lamarque is the cornerstone of such issues, that is what the campaign was _built_ on.”

Ah, he really should have guessed, politics at work seems to be a particularly invigorating topic for Enjolras.

“It’s not even our main focal point, anymore,” Enjolras continues and a hand flies around, nearly whacking Grantaire in the process. “We _barely_ touch on it and I bring it up once and he goes on a ten minute rant about—”

“I’m guessing you countered with a twenty minute rant?” Grantaire cuts in and Enjolras' eyes narrow minutely as they finally meet his.

“That’s not the point,” Enjolras retaliates and Grantaire has to chuckle as he picks up where he left off. “He suggested that LGBTQIA+ issues weren’t even that important anymore because we legalised same-sex marriage and just _refused_ —what are you doing?”

Because Grantaire had pushed forward until his face was right in front of Enjolras’, a smile taking over his own. Enjolras glances down at his mouth quickly, confused, looking back up into his eyes and Grantaire closes the gap between them, sealing his mouth with a kiss.

It’s their first kiss and Enjolras remains frozen, fear striking through Grantaire like lightening, but then he pushes _back_ and oh God, he was not prepared for this. Enjolras cups his face, pulling him in closer, their torsos flushing together. His lips are soft and warm, leaving Grantaire’s to trail up his chin, a hand curling in his hair.

Grantaire is in bliss as he’s pushed back into the couch, Enjolras climbing until he’s straddling his hips, mouth connecting with his again. His hands come up to Enjolras’ side, playing with the hem of his shirt, his fingers splaying across his hips, warmth seeping through them.

Enjolras pulls back, breaths sharp and ragged, a hand resting on his chest, the other still in his hair. His eyes are still bright, hungry, but the anger has mostly dissipated, leaving behind a tender affection that makes Grantaire’s stomach turn.

He lets his head fall back, a laugh escaping him as the hand in his hair drags softly down the side of his face, resting at his neck. He looks back into Enjolras’ eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he says, any pretence of being suave and charming gone, a hopeless smile taking over his face. “Like, obviously, with the face and the hair and everything,” he continues, gesturing to him, “But you fervour and intensity are _intoxicating_ —it’s like I can’t get enough of you, which is kind of ridiculous because I’ve known you for _weeks_.”

Enjolras is smiling back at him, small and shy, his face flushed red (which just makes his eyes even more blue, bright and sparkling like the ocean). His thumb comes up to swipe along Grantaire’s cheek. “Thank-you,” he says softly, closing the distance to kiss him quickly (because they can do that now). “People tend not to look past the hair.”

“I mean, you are objectively gorgeous too, and that definitely helps.” Enjolras huffs at that, the hand on his chest clenching in his shirt. “No seriously, you’re like straight out of a Greek myth. Achilles or—or Apollo.”

Enjolras’ smile turns wry. “So, you’re Patroclus or, what’s his name? Hyacinthus?”

He didn’t think he could fall any harder for the man in front of him. He shakes his head, groaning. “No, no, no, this analogy needs to stop now because both of those stories end horribly and I don’t think I’d be able to follow you to Elysium when we die.”

Enjolras’ chest vibrates beneath his fingers, an open, joyous laugh coming out of him and Grantaire wants to capture this moment, right here, with Enjolras still kneeling over him, his head thrown back, a smile etched onto his face.

Yeah, he really is well and truly fucked.

the one on the drums

_you know that feeling when someone enters youre life and they completely take over, changing it forever. ya im feeling that rn_

_BOY do i understand that way 2 well_

_also i <3 u and am happy for u_

_right back at ya bro_

It’s been one month, two weeks, five days, and four hours of Grantaire knowing Enjolras, of having midnight conversations, of somewhat bordering the lines of what any normal person would consider dating, when he decides that he really needs to talk to Enjolras about this. Clarify where they are going because he doesn’t think Enjolras truly understands the implications of dating someone who has paparazzi following him from the moment he steps outside, whose face is on the front page of E! News at least twice a month.

Thankfully, he lives with enough neighbours that it’s not suspicious that someone is visiting every few days, so they mainly see each other there, occasionally venturing out to the Musain with caution. Between Enjolras’ work and Valjean’s insistence that he should start working on his next album straight away, they don’t have an infinite amount of time, but Enjolras’ keeps up an almost constant stream of conversation over text, which he definitely does not mind, an involuntary smile taking over his face like a lovesick idiot every time he hears his phone chime.

By pure accident, all of their friends meet. He takes the risk to sneak out of his apartment to drop into Courfeyrac’s, making it there only to find Combeferre, Marius, Cosette, Feuilly, and, of course, Enjolras already there, animatedly discussing a new law that is passing through the Senate, causing him to yawn loudly and fall into the spot on the couch next to Enjolras, the two of them sharing a smile. Bahorel barges in half an hour later, uninvited (like himself), with Jehan trailing behind, vehemently proclaiming that Courfeyrac owes him a Marvel marathon before realising there are a bunch of faces staring up at him. He takes it in stride, introducing himself and then pushing Jehan forward, who introduces themself in verse, prompting a round of applause and a holler from Courfeyrac. The mood starts to turn then, from discussing Serious Political Issues to drinking and dancing like they are teenagers, so Grantaire is not surprised when Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta turn up (dragging a half reluctant Éponine) because they have an uncanny talent for sniffing out parties.

They all get on like a house on fire. Feuilly makes a wry comment about Elton John, rolling his beer bottle between his hands, and Bahorel points at him, claiming that they are now best friends for life. Cosette and Éponine apparently already knew each other, friends from childhood, and there is a tense moment where Éponine looks as though she is considering fleeing before engulfing Cosette in a hug. Joly and Combeferre end up in a deep discussion about tongues of all things, to which Grantaire tunes out pretty quickly, and Bossuet falls on him, his head landing in his lap, grinning cheerily up at him, and trying to introduce himself to Enjolras but somehow ending up on a rant about the superiority of Star Trek over Star Wars.

Enjolras remains mostly silent throughout the night, which surprises Grantaire because he has had his ear talked off by the man on many occasions, but when he raises a questioning eyebrow, Enjolras smiles, nodding slightly to indicate that he is more than okay.

Grantaire feels a sense of rightness settling over him as the night wears on—a sense that these people were meant to find each other, meant to become one large cohesive mess of a group. He leaves well past midnight, jubilant, promising Combeferre that he’ll send him that article he was talking about and assuring Cosette that they had a baking date coming up.

It’s when he makes it outside, the cold air rushing past him, prompting him to pull his beanie on, and a flash goes off across the street, which he instantly recognises as the mark of a camera, that he decides it is time to talk seriously with Enjolras. He grits his teeth, walking to his car, which he parked down the street, hurrying to get inside it. It’s one thing to have paparazzi outside his own home, but it’s another for them to find his friends and it painfully reminds him that this is his life, and while he may have chosen it, his friends, and particularly Enjolras, have not.

Enjolras sits across from his, taking sips of his tea. They’re in the Musain, sitting in matching tall-backed, dark green velvet armchairs that engulf Enjolras’ thin frame. He had sent Enjolras a text that morning, asking to meet for coffee and he had successfully snuck out of his apartment to make it there during the day (there was a small side alley accessible from the back courtyard that he only likes to use for dire occasions).

“How’s your week going?” Enjolras asks when the silence grows between them, Grantaire unsure what to say.

“Hm?” He snaps back to reality and Enjolras has a fond look on his face, making it so much harder to start this conversation. “Oh, uh, alright, I guess. Valjean’s making me go to this event this weekend, otherwise I don’t have much to do at the moment.” It has something to do with Taylor Swift and he isn’t sure how he got on the list, feeling far below the magnitude of everyone else he knew was going. “You?” he adds belatedly.

Enjolras hums, tea still in his hand as he uses it to warm his fingers. They’re well into winter know, the full force of it hitting them after holding out for so long, and Grantaire is glad because Enjolras’ cheeks are constantly flushed from the cold and it’s beautiful. “Lamarque is gearing up for the next campaign, even though it’s months away, so we’re all working extra hard at the moment.” He launches into a story, of sleeping interns and a copy printer malfunction that resulted in paper being spewed out of it uncontrollably, the hand not holding his tea flying about enthusiastically, face energetic, but Grantaire struggles to focus, his insides churning.

“We need to talk,” he blurts out, not meaning to and cutting Enjolras off mid-sentence in the process. He winces. “Shit, sorry. That was rude. I—” He stops short, words failing him. “Um.”

Enjolras places his tea on the table between them, face neutral. “I figured. Your text was cryptic and you’re acting strange.”

“Just give me a moment. I need to get the words right.”

“Isn’t it your job to express yourself through words?” Enjolras tilts his head, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Yes, well—I work at those songs for months, so,” he bites out, grimacing at his harshness.

Enjolras barely looks fazed, just a flash of indistinguishable emotion in his eyes. He nods, “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I—” he says after a minute of agonising silence. “This has been amazing, truly. You’re wonderful and way too far out of my league, but that’s another conversation. What I mean to say, is that this has honestly been the happiest I’ve felt, like, ever, which is a lot to say I know, but—” He bites his lip.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Enjolras asks, eyes narrowed.

“I mean,” he replies, voice impressively high, “Are we actually at a stage where we can even break up?”

“You just said I’ve made you the happiest you’ve ever been, that’s not nothing.” Enjolras looks unimpressed, his mouth a straight line.

“Okay, okay, I’m going about this all wrong.” He waves his hands, starting over. “I like you, Enjolras, really, _really_ like you. I don’t want this to end, not even a little bit. I want to date you, go out and show to the world, call you my boyfriend,” he stumbles over the word because he’s never actually _had_ a boyfriend before, not really, officially, and he’s still terrified of having to tell the world and be scrutinised for yet another thing. “I hope you do, too. I think you do. But it’s not going to be easy and I need to be sure you know what you’re getting into.”

Enjolras opens his mouth but he steamrolls over him—he’s on a roll now, the words refusing to be stopped. “Because, seriously, it’s not easy. I have cameras following me constantly, which you obviously know because the only places we can meet are my apartment and _here_ in the _middle of the night_. The only reason I’m here now, as two p.m. on a Thursday is because I begged Valjean to leak a rumour that I was halfway across the country. And it’s not just paparazzi, as annoying at they are, it’s also fans and random people on the street who recognise me and start taking photos or come up to me, asking for a signature and selfie. I don’t leave my apartment anymore, unless I have to, and while I’m grateful that people actually like me and want to listen to my music, it’s hard to have a normal life or, well, start a relationship when all it takes is one photo and then everyone _knows_.”

 _Also, I haven’t actually told anyone other than my friends that I’m bisexual, so there’s that to deal with_ , he mentally adds, but feels as though they should tackle one problem at a time.

Enjolras’ eyes have gone soft and he goes to reach out a hand before halting, looking around the café. It’s not busy, two students hunched over a massive pile of textbooks, heads buried in them, and an elderly couple that he’s sure have no clue who he is. Enjolras retracts his hand, but fixes him with an imploring look.

“Do you think I haven’t considered this?” he asks, voice quiet, but the exasperation clearly seeping through. “Grantaire, I’m not just jumping into this blindly. I’ve been thinking about this since we met. Ferre and I even made a list of pros and cons, which sounds bad, I know, but none of the cons mattered in the end. I’ve never been in a relationship before, you know that,” Grantaire nods, even though he still finds it hard to believe, “and that’s because I don’t really feel the need, but with you it’s different. You challenge me, excite me, make me feel _alive_ like no one else. This isn’t just some—” he pauses, searching for the right word, “some dilly-dally to pass the time.”

“Dilly-dally?”

Enjolras glowers, but his heart isn’t in it. “My point stands. I want to be with you regardless of how hard it may be. I don’t care if people know who I am, I don’t care if I stay a secret forever, I _want_ this.”

“I want this, too,” Grantaire says, even though he’s made that pretty fucking clear.

“Good,” Enjolras concludes, finally picking his tea up again and taking a sip, his satisfied smirk making it difficult to do so.

“Excuse me?” a voice says and there’s the two students at their table, apparently having finally looked up from their textbooks and realising who shared their café. One of them is smiling widely and the other is standing back, shyer. “R? Can we take a photo?”

He smiles back, trying to make it reach his eyes because he really does appreciate his fans, letting them take a selfie and making small conversation. The shy one glances at Enjolras curiously for a second, but doesn’t say anything, just thanking him as they walk off, giggling to each other.

He raises a pointed eyebrow to Enjolras, the _see?_ implied.

“It was like I wasn’t even here,” Enjolras shrugs, nonchalant. “Don’t know what you’re worried about.”

He grins, then falters, remembering there’s more to discuss. “There’s something else,” he says apprehensively.

“Oh?” A cautious expression crosses Enjolras’ face.

“I haven’t actually told the— I guess, the world that I’m bi,” he says slowly.

“Oh,” Enjolras says again. “Right.”

“It’s not because I’m ashamed or anything,” he goes on, “It’s actually one of the few things I’ve been sure about since I was a kid. I just can’t bring myself to go through with it. To open up that kind of scrutiny, face loosing fans or have people question me about it. I don’t want to become an advocate for bisexuality or the queer community. That’s just not me.”

Enjolras purses his lips and he can see the argument forming in his mind that, actually, that’s perfect, Grantaire should use his fame to raise awareness and build solidarity, but he doesn’t say anything, which Grantaire is eternally grateful for because now is not the time for that.

“Well, then,” Enjolras replies with instead, “We’ll just keep doing what we’re doing, I see no problem with that.” He nods as though the problem is solved, and Grantaire guesses that it is, basically.

He shoots Enjolras a smile and goes back to his long forgotten coffee, wincing at the now cold temperature.

“So, can I get back to my story?” Enjolras says after a moment, raising an eyebrow. “I was quite into it when you rudely interrupted.” He’s giving Grantaire a pointed look and for a moment he’s scared that he actually offended Enjolras, until he spots the slight twitch of his mouth, involuntarily tugging up as he attempts to keep a straight face.

“You may want to start from the beginning,” he replies, grin slipping onto his face, “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.”

Enjolras glares at him, launching into the story again and he pays attention this time, relishing Enjolras’ easy manner and carefree smile.

_I'll admit, for a moment I felt so afraid_   
_Just to show you the mess that I made_   
_There are pieces I usually hide_

Ease My Mind by R

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two sets of lyrics are from Ben Platt's album Sing To Me Instead. I would recommend checking it out because it is beautiful and I listened to it a lot while writing this.
> 
> The title is a play on a quote from The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, again because I reread it while half-way through writing this, hence the Achilles/Patroclus reference is in there. I also took quite a bit of inspiration from Patroclus' love for Achilles when in the mind of Grantaire, so it felt fitting to use a quote as the title.
> 
> I hope it was clear, but the text messages from 'the one on the drums' was Courfeyrac
> 
> There's a second part coming soon! It's already written, I'm just editing it again, but it's even longer than this part, so wanted to get this out now.
> 
> Thanks for reading :) I've worked incredibly hard on this and while it may not be perfect, I'm proud of it and hopefully slowly getting better and better at writing every time I try.


	2. the middle (and the end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes a minor panic attack, so beware if that's not for you - it doesn't last long and is resolved fairly quickly. And a warning for blood, but no violence.

As soon as Grantaire steps out of the door, jumping down the stairs onto the pavement, feet slapping the ground with a satisfying sound, he’s bombarded by Enjolras and Combeferre (two very imposing figures when they want to be).

“Um, hi,” he says, stopping short and fixing his cap. His method for anonymity in the warmer months is a cap and sunglasses, which isn’t that inconspicuous but it usually does the trick. Early spring has already brought along warmer days, presenting the necessity for his ‘disguise’.

“Hello,” Combeferre replies, handing him a coffee—in a reusable cup, of course—and starting down the path, Enjolras motioning for him to follow with a smile.

“Uh, what are you doing here?” He has just left the recording studio, where he spent the day working on some tentative demos, trying to get them down before they escape his mind. (Emphasis on tentative because a few of the songs are about Enjolras and he isn’t sure if he wants to release anything about him yet, even indirectly.)

“We were in the neighbourhood,” Enjolras replies.

He raises an eyebrow, sceptical. He knows for a fact that Lamarque’s office and the hospital Combeferre interns at are far from here and very little would cause them to be on the other side of town on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Fine,” Enjolras relents, a light blush gracing his features, “that’s not exactly true.”

“Lamarque sent Enjolras home early,” Combeferre supplies over his shoulder from where he’s walking in front of them. “And I have the night shift tonight, so we thought we could come see you.”

Enjolras, of course, knew he was at the studio because he has the bad habit of texting him every single detail of his life, which is something he isn’t exactly put out by at the current moment. He hums, still suspicious, and shoots Enjolras another look, nudging him gently. “Sent home?”

“I might have yelled at someone.” Enjolras only looks mildly remorseful, his jaw clenching. “I stand by my words, he was being incredibly obtuse and offensive, but I understand that my actions may have surpassed appropriate behaviour.”

Grantaire scoffs and Enjolras sends him a grin, humour glinting in his eyes.

They turn a corner and Enjolras uses the opportunity to bump into him, his smile mischievous. They rarely go outside together and when they do, it’s usually with more of their friends. He returns the smile, a touch hesitant, hyper aware of every single person also on the street, even though none seem to be paying attention when he checks.

They walk in silence for a while, wondering aimlessly, which doesn’t bother him—he didn’t have any plans for the rest of the day anyway.

After a while, when Combeferre leads them around another seemingly random corner, his curiosity peaks and he asks, “Where are we going?” Enjolras and Combeferre may be acting blasé, but he has learnt that they are often scheming with one another, their actions rarely unintentional.

“To our apartment,” Combeferre replies offhandedly, leading them down an alleyway.

“Um,” he says, halting to a stop. The alleyway is small and relatively clean compared to others, plants growing over windowsills, the walls low enough to allow sun to stream through. Importantly, it provides shelter from prying eyes, once they’re far enough down it. He looks to Enjolras, who has crossed his arms, stance firm. Combeferre falters to a stop more slowly, giving them space with an apologetic look to Grantaire. “What?”

“You’re coming to mine,” Enjolras answers, voice not giving room for arguing. He still hasn’t been to Enjolras’ apartment, months into this, terrified that people will follow him and then Enjolras won’t even be able to go to his own home in peace.

He opens his mouth, rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but Enjolras continues, holding up a hand. “We’ve figured this out,” he says, gesturing to Combeferre, who fiddles with his glasses, eyes pointedly trained elsewhere. “We’re only taking certain alleyways that we’ve thoroughly checked and we’ve essentially stalked all our neighbours to figure out when they won’t be home, so you’re coming to mine. The opportunity arose when I got sent home, so we’re taking it.”

“That’s creepy,” he replies, for a lack of something better.

Enjolras huffs a laugh, taking a step closer, a hand coming up to squeeze his arm. Grantaire’s eyes dart to the end of the alley, the entrance blissfully empty. Enjolras tugs his arm, capturing his attention again. “I want you to see my place, okay?” he says, just loud enough to be heard. His face is incredibly close and Grantaire tracks the sun-born freckles that trace up his cheekbones. “I understand you’re worried but it will be fine. We’ve planned this through.”

“We also wanted to get your opinion on some stuff,” Combeferre adds. “There’s a lot of it, so it seemed unnecessarily annoying to move.”

He stays silent, mind whirring, but he really can never say no to those startingly blue eyes that bare into his soul like they’re reading his thoughts, so he nods, a smile tentatively flittering across his lips. Enjolras beams at him, face lighting up like the sun. He squeezes his arm again, letting go and continuing down the alleyway, a bounce in his step.

Grantaire, helpless, follows.

  


Combeferre wasn’t exaggerating when he said it would be an annoyance to move what they wanted to show him. The first thing he notices upon entering the apartment is the dining table flooded with papers and signs and books, all scattered haphazardly, with no discernible method of organisation. He spots some further piles of paper teetering dangerously high from where they’re stacked on the floor.

He spares a glance for the rest of the apartment, noting that it’s relatively neat in comparison to the explosion before him. The kitchen, dining room and living room all lead into one, open plan, with one wall full of shelves, filled to the brim with books. He can see a hallway lead off, presumably, to a bathroom and their bedrooms. (The thought of seeing Enjolras’ room makes his stomach twist and he resigns himself to the fact that he will forever resort to acting like a teenager being in love for the first time around him.)

“So,” he says eventually, still stuck in the doorway. Combeferre’s moved past him, hanging his jacket up on a coat rack and walking over to the table, sorting through some of the papers. Enjolras takes his hand, because he can now they’re inside, and pulls him towards the table. “I’m guessing this is what you wanted me to see?”

Combeferre nods, a hand coming up to fix his glasses as he hands over the papers he picked up, Grantaire accepting them with hesitance. “We wanted to get your input.”

“On?” he pulls out a chair, careful not to disturb a pile on the floor near him and sits down, glancing at the papers in his hand.

“You know the protest we have in a few weeks?” Enjolras asks, taking the seat next to him as Grantaire nods. Enjolras has been talking about the protest incessantly since its inception two months ago, to which he has tried valiantly to pay attention to (and was mostly successful in the endeavour) but tended to get side-tracked by the sound of his voice rather than the actual content of what he was saying, so rarely retained the finer details. “Do you remember what it’s about?”

“Er,” Grantaire stalls, shooting his eyes to Combeferre, pleading for help but the evil man just laughs, still shuffling through the papers, in search of something. Okay, fine, by finer details, he really means nothing and now his only hope has left him stranded. He looks back to Enjolras, who is more than amused. “You’re really distracting, okay?” he relents.

Combeferre snorts from across the table and a light blush spreads gloriously across Enjolras’ cheeks, but he doesn’t respond, just giving him a small glare instead that has no heat behind it.

“A bill is being introduced in Congress, one that would dramatically reduce queer rights and visibility in schools,” he says, reaching out to grab a poster. His voice is suddenly all business, eyes narrowed as he looks at Grantaire. He places the poster in front of him, precariously balancing it on the stacks already there. It’s a simplistic design of a raised first, coloured with the pride flag, the details of the protest printed clearly down the bottom. “I know you don’t believe that protests will actually achieve anything and, of course, you can’t come, but that doesn’t mean your input isn’t valuable. We we’re hoping you could help us go over everything. Make sure all our arguments are fool-proof.”

Enjolras nods towards the pile that Combeferre had handed him and picks up a pen, tapping it hurriedly against the table. Grantaire looks down at the papers sitting in his lap, actually comprehending what’s in front of him this time. It’s clearly a speech, Enjolras’ name written at the top. He rifles through the pages, which don’t seem to end.

“Jesus,” he says, when he makes it to page thirty, “how long were you planning on talking for?”

“We’re still working on cutting it down,” Combeferre replies rather dryly and he glances over to see the tired look Combeferre is giving Enjolras, who retaliates by straightening his shoulders (a move that is actually quite intimidating).

“There’s a lot of information to cover,” he primly says, the pen still tapping away.

Combeferre launches back with a reply that sounds as though it’s been said many a time, but Grantaire tunes them out, starting to read the speech. He immediately grabs for the pen that Enjolras is holding and scratches out a word, using the pen to follow the line he is on. Enjolras grumbles beside him, looking over his shoulder to read the corrections.

“You’re trying to arouse solidarity and a unified front, not violence,” he responds to the grumbling, ignoring Enjolras’ huff.

“Thank-you,” Combeferre mutters emphatically, crossing his arms.

“Violence wouldn’t be the worst thing…” Enjolras ventures, prompting both him and Combeferre to glare at him. He holds up his hands, defensive. “Okay, okay, no violence.”

“Firstly, this is a protest that will mainly be filled with teenagers, aggression is strictly out of the question,” Combeferre sighs, his hand rubbing the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses awkwardly up in the process. “Second, you know you can’t get arrested.”

This also sounds like an old argument between the two, but Grantaire hadn’t even entertained the idea of arrest, his mind immediately supplying images of Enjolras bloody and broken, making his blood run cold. He gulps as Enjolras counters, turning his attention back to the speech.

He’s almost halfway through before he looks up again, the pages quickly filling up with red marks as he scribbles corrections, many asking for a source. Enjolras and Combeferre continue talking the whole time, topics varying from scouring through the proposed bill again and measures they have to put in place with the police, a task that neither of them particularly look forward to doing. When he looks up, Enjolras is leaning forward, elbow placed on the table as he points at Combeferre, debating heatedly with him.

Grantaire takes the opportunity to watch him, eyes tracing the blazing curls that fall out of his mini bun atop his head, the tan skin that glows from the setting sun streaming through the window. His eyes are alight, with purpose and determination and excitement, his mouth constantly quirking up as he fires back at Combeferre. Enjolras is the type of person to look at ease anywhere, no matter the situation, but here, in the freedom of his own home, he is completely relaxed, his face softening in a way that it never does elsewhere, his posture relieved of the stress he carries around (except for maybe at Grantaire’s, which makes his heart clench, warmth spread through him).

Combeferre notices his staring and he hurriedly tries to hide the dopey look that is definitely plastered all over his face. Combeferre just shakes his head, laughing softly, and Enjolras spares him a glance, curious, but far too fixated on his current conversation to prod any further. He looks back down, determined to finish editing the speech. 

They work for hours, going back and forth on arguments, double checking sources, ensuring every fact can be backed, until Combeferre has to leave for his night shift, kissing them both on the head as a goodbye.

“Hi,” Enjolras says as soon as the door closes behind Combeferre. He is flushed from the adrenaline from working so long, eyes bright as he looks over at Grantaire with a blinding smile.

“Hi,” he replies, turning to face him properly, his side leaning against the back of the chair. Enjolras mirrors him, a hand reaching out to squeeze his knee.

“Thank-you.” His voice is soft, face coming so close it’s inches away from Grantaire’s, who shrugs nonchalantly. “Seriously, Taire, I’ve been stressing over this for weeks and now I feel so much better about it.” He closes the distance between them, kissing him soundly, his other hand coming up to the back of Grantaire’s head, fingers curling in his hair.

“No worries,” he breathes between kisses because he never wants to stop this—this moment right here, despite the chair digging into his side, the cramp in his hand from writing so quickly and the ache in his back from sitting for hours. The way Enjolras was looking at him, proud and delighted, makes his insides flutter and the feel of his hands twisting in his hair, of Enjolras biting down on his lip, is something he’ll never forget. “Anytime,” he adds, meaning it.

Eventually Enjolras pulls away (much to his chagrin—who needs to breathe, anyhow?), but thankfully stays close, their knees bumping against each other. Enjolras blinks once, twice, regaining his thought and Grantaire feels pride well up inside of him that he did that. The hand still in his hair falls, landing on his shoulder and playing with the collar of his shirt.

“I wish you could come,” Enjolras lets out after a moment, eyes trained on the table. His thumb absentmindedly brushes along Grantaire’s neck, causing a shiver to run through him.

“I know,” he replies. His hands have somehow made their way to Enjolras’ thighs, resting there, and he squeezes gently. Enjolras looks up at him, his lips bright red and very distracting. “But—”

“If you come, then it’s about you, I know, I know,” Enjolras sighs, kissing him on the forehead as he stands up. He lifts his arms above his head to stretch his body and Grantaire uses the opportunity to poke him in the stomach where his shirt rode up. “Also,” Enjolras continues, slapping the hand away and sparing him a playful scowl as he walks to the kitchen, “it’s not like you would come if you could.”

His voice is light, joking, but there’s an underlying bitterness lacing the words with would-be subtleness that would be missed by someone who hadn’t spent the last months dedicated to learning everything about him. Grantaire, on the other hand, had, so immediately picked up on it. He stands up, knees and back cracking loudly, and follows him because that’s not _true_. At least not entirely.

“I would be there,” he says, resting his hands on the island bench that separates them. Enjolras eyes him over his shoulder as he walks over to the fridge, pulling out some vegetables. Grantaire realises that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, his plans for a late lunch being steamrolled by the force that is Enjolras and Combeferre. He takes the time to search for the right words. “I believe in _you_ , okay? I don’t necessarily think that one protest is going to have an effect, but if anyone could do it, it would be you. Besides, even if something were completely futile and probably a waste of everyone’s time, I would go just to support you if I could.”

“Charming,” Enjolras snorts, but his smile is back in full force and the tightness in Grantaire’s chest eases. “Can I come over afterwards?” he adds, hopeful but Grantaire doesn’t know why because when has he ever insinuated that Enjolras isn’t welcome at his apartment anytime?

“Of course,” he says, reaching out to take the knife that Enjolras is using to cut some carrots, taking over.

Enjolras shoots him a grateful look, turning to the pantry to grab some pasta and ingredients for a sauce. When he turns back around, there’s a small smirk playing along his lips. “As long as I don’t get arrested.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Grantaire whines, pouting and Enjolras’ laughter fills up the room.

  


Enjolras doesn’t get arrested, but when he turns up at Grantaire’s door an hour after the protest ended, blood dripping down his forehead, wincing as he walks through the door and clutching his side, his whole body goes cold and oh, this is so much worse than being arrested because there’s _blood_ and he’s _hurt_ and that’s not allowed to happen.

“Shit,” he says, feet stuck to the ground as Enjolras shuffles towards the kitchen with a sigh. He’s left standing in the hallway by himself, the door still open and his mouth agape. He shakes his head. “ _Shit_ , Enjolras,” he repeats, closing the door and hurrying after him, taking the wet paper towel that Enjolras is using to clean his forehead and taking over, one hand pressed into blonde curls, pushing them back, as he gently dabs away the blood.

“What happened?” he asks quietly into the silence. He needs to know—needs to know who thought it would be okay to hurt Enjolras and get away with it.

Enjolras just sighs, eyes closed as he rests his hands on Grantaire’s hips, fingers clenching his jumper and probably leaving bloody stains but Grantaire can’t find it in himself to care. “Someone in the crowd,” Enjolras mutters, his voice tired, hoarse from speaking and shouting all day. Grantaire finally cleans enough of the blood to find the cause, a small nick that won’t cause any lasting damage—he’s cleaned up enough wounds, both from his time with Montparnasse and his frequent boxing sessions with Bahorel, to know what looks bad compared to what actually is bad.

“I think—” Enjolras continues, scrunching up his nose and letting out a hiss, “I think they threw a rock. I don’t really know, it all happened so quickly and then there were so many people running and fighting and I tried getting out, but there were too many.”

“And you’re bleeding because…?” he prompts, reaching around Enjolras to put down the bloodied paper towel.

“I fell over,” Enjolras mumbles against him and a surprised chuckles arises from inside him, even though there is nothing remotely amusing about the situation, but Enjolras is giving him a sheepish smile, one eye squinting open, causing some warmth to start returning to him. “Which is kind of ridiculous because there were so many people fighting and I was the figurehead so surely if someone was spoiling for a fight they would come to me, but I tripped over my own feet before anyone could find me.”

His laugh is louder this time, escaping him freely and Enjolras’ smile is faint, but there, calming his racing heart.

“It was going really well,” Enjolras sighs, resigned. The smile falls off his face and his blue eyes are dark, sombre, as they stare into Grantaire’s. He takes a step back to fall against the bench, but winces, hand coming up to clutch his side, gripping his shirt.

Grantaire pulls the shirt up, breath stopping short as he sees the large scrape on Enjolras’ hip, blood and dirt and skin jumbled messily together. “God,” he breathes, eyes shooting up to Enjolras’ face quickly. “Were you going to mention this?”

Enjolras looks dazedly down at the wound, a hand coming up to rest on his shoulder, keeping him balanced. “I didn’t realise it was so bad,” he replies faintly, squeezing his shoulder. “Oh, I don’t like blood.”

Enjolras is as pale as a ghost, gulping visibly as he looks away, so Grantaire leads him towards the bathroom, arm wrapping around the non-injured side, hand resting high enough to avoid it.

“I’m calling Joly,” he says when they make it to the bathroom, stopping to grab an old towel on the way. “I am not qualified to deal with this without giving you an infection.”

“No,” Enjolras says, shaking his head vehemently, his hand gripping the bench, knuckles white, as a wave of dizziness washes over him. Grantaire steadies him with a hand on his back. “I love him, but I don’t want to freak him out. Besides, I’m pretty sure I saw Bossuet fall so I’m guessing he’s otherwise occupied.”

“Combeferre then.”

Enjolras groans, muttering, “He’ll be with Courf, I don’t want to interrupt,” but Grantaire has his phone out, already dialling.

Combeferre picks up after the second ring, foregoing formalities and answering, “Is he with you?”

“Yeah,” he replies, shooting Enjolras a glare and asking, “You didn’t tell anyone where you were?”

Enjolras shrugs as Combeferre starts talking again, “We couldn’t find him afterwards and we either assumed he was at yours or arrested because he’s not answering his phone.” There’s a hint of anger in the usually gently voice, which is the first time Grantaire has truly heard that emotion coming from Combeferre and he vows to never get on his bad side. “Is he okay?”

“A scratch on his head that looks fine, but a massive graze on his hip. There’s dirt and blood and, frankly, it’s not fun to look at.” Combeferre huffs, amused. “Oh, he’s also alarmingly white and rather faint, but I can’t tell if that’s from hitting his head or the sight of blood.”

Enjolras glares from where he sat down on the tiles, resting against the bathtub. He replies by poking his tongue out, the epitome of mature.

“I’m coming over,” Combeferre’s voice replies over the phone. There’s a muffled sound in the background and he adds, “Courf, too. Just try to start cleaning the graze if you can, water should be fine. And make him drink some water.”

He pockets his phone when Combeferre hangs up, wetting the towel and budging Enjolras’ legs apart so he can sit in between them, pulling the shirt up again to examine the wound. He works at it methodically, cleaning it as best he can as Enjolras grips his shoulder, hissing in pain whenever he pushes to hard.

“Sorry,” he mutters when Enjolras lets out a small wince, jaw tense from grinding his teeth. “Relax,” he adds, his free hand that isn’t covered in blood coming up to cup his face, thumb soothing his jaw out.

The cut is as clean as it’s going to get until Combeferre is there to help so he puts down the towel, wiping his hand in an attempt to scrub away the blood. A flash of annoyance tears through him, he doesn’t know where from, but it’s been a long day and he was stressed long before Enjolras came tumbling through his door, broken and hurt. He should have _been_ there and a small part of him feels responsible because he couldn’t to make sure this didn’t happen.

“You’re allowed to show pain, it’s not like you’re actually a marble statue,” he bites out, surprising himself.

Enjolras’ eyes narrow, his body stiffening, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a call back to a throw away comment from months ago, when Grantaire was feeling particularly agitated and was spoiling for a fight, so compared Enjolras to the statute of David, to which he didn’t take kindly. It was their first _real_ fight, leaving both of them exhausted and Enjolras slamming the door on the way out.

“Of course, you wouldn’t want to show any pain,” he continues, his voice low, breaking the growing silence. There’s resentment building inside of him, towards himself, that he chose this stupid career that means he can’t do simple things like take his boyfriend out to _lunch_. That he can’t attend protests or rallies or any of the political meetings that mean so much to Enjolras and be there for him, support him, because it will just make the events about _him_. “Have to be strong for the people, can’t show any sign of weakness because then you won’t be able to achieve your one purpose in life and _save_ the _people_.”

The scorn is dripping from his words like honey, but it’s not sweet, it’s the further thing from sweet and he doesn’t know why he’s saying these things, but his mouth just won’t stop.

He had pushed backwards at some point, widening the distance between them and creating an insurmountable gap. Enjolras’ mouth is a thin line, some blood finally coming back to his face and sitting high on his cheeks.

A tiny (traitorous) voice in the back of his head points out that the reason they’re in this situation is because Enjolras refuses to back down and puts himself in danger and won’t stop doing so. That he’s so blinded by his need to save the world that he allows himself to get hurt in the process. (He tries futilely to drown out the voice because it’s completely wrong and Enjolras wouldn’t be who he is without that fire burning within him.)

“Why do you even bother with friendships—relationships—when there’s the whole human race to worry about?” Where is this stuff coming from and why can’t he _stop_? “What’s the point in investing your time in love or happiness, when there’s so much—?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras cuts through him and the words dissolve on his tongue, heart pumping loudly in his ear as he examines the pain and hurt flashing across Enjolras’ face. His voice is resigned as he asks, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, shaking his head, a few curls falling in front of his eyes. He pushes them back in an agitated movement, accidentally scratching his forehead.

Enjolras sighs, tiredness obvious in every inch of his body. He usually responds to Grantaire’s provocations just as forcefully, fighting back, but now he’s pinning him with a weary expression, as though he can’t bear the thought of having to go through this again. Grantaire remembers, cursing himself, that Enjolras’ day has already been exhausting enough and now he’s just adding on top of that.

He pinches his thigh, a part of him harbouring the pain.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, barely a whisper as he reaches a hand out between them. His hand is scattered with dried blood, marring them. Grantaire tentatively returns the gesture and Enjolras tangles their fingers together, tugging so he is forced to crawl forward, again sitting in between Enjolras’ legs. “You know why I do this, right?”

He lowers his eyebrows in silent questions as Enjolras looks at him, head titled to the side.

“Why I lead protests, why I fight endlessly for a better world, why I ‘save the people’?” A hint of amusement laces his last words, wry. He squeezes their hands. “You’re right. I am doing this for the people, but not the generic concept of human beings, I’m doing this because I love _people_ —every single human in this world. As individuals who have hopes and dreams and deserve to live in a better world.” He brings his spare hand up to the side of Grantaire’s face, a thumb running across his cheek and Grantaire hates himself even more because _he’s_ meant to be comforting Enjolras right now, not the other way round. “And I’m inspired by the people around me. By Combeferre, Feuilly, all of our friends, my parents, _you_ , because you all show me every day that the world—the people in this world—are worth fighting for.”

Enjolras stops, taking a deep breath and brushing a curl off of Grantaire’s face, impossibly gentle.

“Every time you tell a joke,” Enjolras eventually continues, his voice almost too low to hear, “and can’t finish because you’re laughing too hard, every morning when you take an hour to get up, cursing the sun, every time you grab my hand or play with my hair or just touch me for no apparent reason, every time you _sing_ and you’re so beautiful and raw, I’m reminded again and again that there’s a reason I’m doing this.”

Grantaire lets out a small incredulous laugh. “That was poetic,” he mumbles.

“Of course I have time for love,” Enjolras says, ignoring him, “Love and happiness are what makes the world _good_ —worth it.”

He collapses forward, head thumping against Enjolras’ chest and staying there. A hand comes up to the back of his head, playing with his curls.

“I really hate you sometimes,” he says after a while. “That was not fair, you can’t just _say_ things like that.”

Enjolras just laughs softly, kissing the crown of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says into Enjolras’ shirt.

“I know,” Enjolras replies, voice just as soft.

“I’m stupid and let my anxiety get the better of me.”

“It’s okay, none of us are perfect.”

He scoffs because really? He gets combative for no good reason and Enjolras responds with that speech and he’s not meant to be perfect?

The fingers in his hair tighten for a moment, Enjolras’ silent sign that he interpreted the scoff correctly, telling him off.

They fall into silence, Grantaire staying where he is despite the ache creeping into his back because he never wants to let go of the man in front of him and he’s exhausted from everything and feels as though he could fall asleep. He wraps one arm around Enjolras’ torso, high enough to avoid the scrape and rests his head properly on his chest, ear against his heartbeat. He closes his eyes.

They’re eventually interrupted (if companionable silence can be interrupted) by a small cough coming from the door. Apparently, Courfeyrac had let himself and Combeferre into the apartment, quiet enough for them not to notice.

The cough was from Combeferre, who peers over the top of his glasses with a fond smile before stepping into the room properly, business like as he opens his emergency kit. Courfeyrac appears behind him with a coo, grinning widely at them.

He reluctantly disentangles himself from Enjolras to move out of the way, instantly colder. Enjolras catches his hand for a moment, grabbing his attention to send a smile.

“How are you feeling?” Combeferre asks, kneeling in front of Enjolras and gesturing with a hand for him to show his scrape. Enjolras complies, lifting his shirt with a sign and Courfeyrac lets out a low, “damn, that’s good,” when he sees it.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras replies, “R cleaned it up and I feel good otherwise. No headache or anything.”

There’s a familiar rhythm between them as Combeferre assesses him, searching for signs of weakness, and it occurs to Grantaire that this probably happens a lot and will again. He needs to figure out how not to freak out next time.

“Did you have some water?”

“Ah, didn’t really get to that bit,” Enjolras answers, sheepish, as Grantaire curses. “We got kind of distracted.”

The amused smile that Enjolras sends him is blinding, lighting him up inside out as he hurries out to the kitchen in search of a glass, Courfeyrac’s laugh following him.

  


  


**Grantaire** @therealr 9.36 pm

todays lesson: blood is difficult to get out of clothes

  


  


Spring moves onto summer, the days, weeks, months just making Grantaire fall more and more in love with Enjolras, so he is not at all surprised when it all goes to shit.

He’s been waiting for it to happen—for the other shoe to drop—because good things never last, not for him. That’s why he still lives in an apartment when he could afford a big house, with a never-ending backyard and three swimming pools, among people even more well-known than him. He’s too afraid to commit to the house and then watch his whole career go down the drain.

So, really, he’s just been venerating every single moment he gets with Enjolras, who took about three minutes to slot himself into his life with far too much ease and has been there since. They work past the bickering and arguing (although, he is quite partial to seeing Enjolras riled up, eyes narrowing dangerously), the different careers that results in vastly different lifestyles and timetables, Enjolras often leaving for his internship before his brain even entertains the idea of waking up. Grantaire still has periods where he falls into slumps of depression and can’t leave his bed for a week, which Enjolras doesn’t quite get but tries his hardest to help, and in turn, Grantaire attempts to stop Enjolras from running himself into the ground, which is often responded to with a snippy retort and a glare. Despite all that (or because of), they fit together and if he believed in things such as fate and soulmates, Enjolras would be his.

Said soulmate is currently propped up in his bed, glasses perched on the edge of his nose (Grantaire had almost died when he first put them on, his insides melting), frowning down at his phone, when he returns from the bathroom, falling on the bed beside him. The morning light is pouring through the open curtains, setting Enjolras’ messy hair alight. He reaches up, pulling on a curl and Enjolras swats absentmindedly with a small smile.

He stretches out on his stomach, resting his head on a pillow and Enjolras brings a hand down to run through his hair, Grantaire humming. He’s nearly asleep again when Enjolras finally speaks, soft in the quiet ambience.

“Courf’s having a party.” He sounds amused and Grantaire can only imagine the extravagance of the invite. “This weekend.”

He lets out a low moan, squinting open his eyes. Enjolras is looking down at him, impossibly fond. “What’s the occasion?”

“Apparently, it’s been six months since he met Ferre and that’s a cause for celebration.” Ah, that explains the amusement. “Can’t say I disagree.”

“Nuh uh,” he mumbles, “Can’t go. We’ve got plans.”

“We do?”

He hums, sending Enjolras a grin. “Yep. It involves us, this bed and never leaving it.”

Enjolras’ laughter lights up his face and he slides down to lay on his back, their heads facing each other. Grantaire snakes an arm out to curl around his hips, pulling him close.

“As tempting as that sounds,” Enjolras says, voice low, “we should probably go. I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer.”

“Insatiable,” he agrees, bringing his hand up to the back of Enjolras’ head and pulling him into a kiss. The angle’s slightly awkward and they both still have morning breath, but he doesn’t care, smiling into it.

Enjolras pulls away eventually and he follows, whining softly. “I should get going. You’ve already made me late twice this week and Lamarque may be forgiving, but I can’t push it if I want to get the job.” Lamarque had many an announcement that two interns out of the thirty that were there would be offered a job at the end of the month. Enjolras had it in the bag, if Lamarque’s reliance on him was anything to go by, but he had still been working extra hard the last few weeks, cutting into his already limited time with Grantaire.

“We’ll go to Courf’s,” Enjolras continues, climbing out of bed, his attempt at flirting incredibly bad but nevertheless endearing, “leave early and then you can have me all to yourself on Sunday.” He pauses, bending down to kiss him once, twice. “Happy six months,” he mumbles between them and Grantaire is left feeling, and probably looking, like a love-sick fool as Enjolras goes to the bathroom to shower.

  


The party is in full swing when they arrive, having been delayed by Enjolras’ decision to wear sinfully tight pants, which Grantaire had felt compelled to do something about before they left and, as a consequence, they were an hour late. The room is brimming with people, many of whom he doesn’t recognise. Courfeyrac comes bounding up to them with a blinding grin, Combeferre being pulled along by the hand amiably.

“R!” Courfeyrac shouts, throwing his arms around him, “Enj!” He steps back, grabbing two champagne glasses from a passing waiter (for a party of such short notice, it is exceedingly fancy) and pushing them into their hands. Grantaire doesn’t drink, hasn’t taken a sip of alcohol in nearly three years, but he doesn’t begrudge Courfeyrac when the man is clearly plastered, clutching on to Combeferre to keep his balance. He holds on to the drink, keeping it for when Enjolras wants a second.

“You know,” Courfeyrac slurs, pitching forward and Combeferre catches him before he can fall on his face, “I wasn’t sure you were going to come.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” Grantaire replies with a grin, Courfeyrac pouting at him. “How are you already so drunk? It’s barely nine.”

“I might have started early.” Courfeyrac brightens suddenly, giggling. “Jehan!” he yells, spotting the graceful redhead and chasing after them.

“I should probably…” Combeferre trails off, a hint of amusement concealed behind his glasses.

Enjolras follows him, pulling on Grantaire’s arm to make sure he follows. Combeferre makes it to Courfeyrac, who is straddling Jehan, trapping them in their armchair and playing with their hair. Combeferre attempts to pull him off with an exasperated sigh, apologising, but Jehan laughs it off, hugging Courfeyrac, who sends a cheeky grin to Combeferre.

Enjolras takes the distraction to whisper in his ear, “Two hours, then we can go home.”

Grantaire nods, his insides fluttering at the way Enjolras says home, simple and easy. Enjolras must realise what he’s thinking because for a moment he looks like he’s about to lean in and kiss him, but stops, giving him a smile instead.

His heart clenches.

Lately, he doesn’t know why he’s so scared to come out, to show the world Enjolras, because if anyone deserves to be in the spotlight, it’s him. He wants the world to know that this beautiful man exists, that there’s still _good_ out there.

But there’s still something stopping him—the fear, the apprehension—that won’t let him make that final step.

“Grantaire,” Jehan says warmly from beneath Courfeyrac, who has taken to braiding their hair—well, attempting, he can’t seem to get past the second step and keeps on restarting, tongue stuck out in concentration. “You never responded to my email.”

He winces, sitting down on the arm of the chair, hand on the backrest to keep himself upright.

“I feel I made some very insightful contributions that should not go ignored,” Jehan says, smile playing across their lips.

When Grantaire was still in the process of writing his first album, still new to what song writing entailed, he had relied heavily on Jehan’s poetic prowess and had countless discussions about exactly what word he wanted to use in a specific line. Of course, Jehan’s name is listed in the credits of those songs because they can turn the most mundane line into something beautiful.

Grantaire had sent him his demos the other day and had read through Jehan’s reply, loving every single suggestion and he’s not sure why he didn’t respond, but he can hazard a guess he was somehow distracted by Enjolras.

“I’m sorry—I really meant to. I actually wanted to talk to you more about them.”

Jehan kicks Courfeyrac off then—who responds with a long whine until Combeferre pulls him into a hug—and moves over, squishing themselves against the arm so Grantaire can fit next to them. He does and Jehan enthusiastically launches into a commentary on the use of ‘devotion’ over ‘intensity’.

He stays there for ages, trying to store everything his friend is saying for a later date, when he can actually sit down and edit his songs. He excuses himself after a while, when he realises that he still has the glass of champagne in his hands, no longer fizzing. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had disappeared at some point, so he heads to the kitchen in search for something he can actually drink.

He finds Éponine and Musichetta there, which is mercifully empty compared to the rest of the apartment. They’re sitting up on the counter, their legs swinging as they chat and he joins them after replacing the champagne with a bottle of water. Éponine narrows her eyes when she spots him, but doesn’t complain when he leans against the bench across from the two, one of the nicer greetings he’s received from her. Musichetta, on the other hand, jumps off the counter and wraps him in a hug, which he heartily returns because it’s a crime to reject Musichetta’s famous hugs.

“It’s been too long,” Musichetta says, pulling away. “I feel like I never see you anymore.”

Éponine scoffs, taking a sip of her soda—she only gets drunk in the comfort of her own home, which he can completely understand the reasoning behind. “Because he no longer needs us for attention.”

Grantaire spares her a quick glare, but otherwise ignores the comment. “We see each other at least once a week,” he tells Musichetta, who just shakes her head.

“Doesn’t count,” she says and has a point. It’s become a sort of tradition for all of them to meet up weekly, but with so many of them, it’s always chaotic and there’s little time for one-on-one catch up.

They pull him into their conversation, something about the sexism inherent in different types of professions. He coincidentally read an article on a similar topic the other day, one that Enjolras had recommended (although maybe that’s why they’re discussing it because Enjolras is known to send an article he likes to everyone he knows), so he can keep up and not make himself look like a complete fool.

They’re interrupted by Bossuet falling through the door, a giggling Joly attached to him, when he’s just swallowing the last of his water and he hastily wipes away where some dribbles down his chin. From the look Éponine gives him, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“R!” Bossuet cries, waggling his barely-there eyebrows suggestively, “Your _man_ is looking for you.”

He collapses into laughter at this, Joly on top of him, just as hysterical, and Musichetta rolls her eyes, hauling them up.

“Leave you two alone for one moment,” she mumbles grumpily, but the fondness shines through her eyes.

Joly looks over at Grantaire, eyes struggling to focus on him. “Seriously, R. He’s, like, as drunk as us. You may want to go.”

So he does, leaving as Éponine squeezes his shoulder, silently checking he’s alright. She’s had an even more shitty childhood than his, of which he doesn’t even know half of. They’ve had many late nights divulging in each other, so know what might be potentially triggering.

He gives her a nod. He really is fine around others who are drinking, the temptation no longer overwhelming, and Enjolras knows of his past, his struggles, so wouldn’t have drunk if he wasn’t comfortable.

Entering into the main living room, it’s even more crowded than it was an hour ago when he was talking with Jehan. Courfeyrac owns an impressively spacious apartment and he’s somehow managed to cram it full of bodies, people pulsing against one another to the music. It takes him a few minutes searching for Enjolras, eventually finding him huddled in a corner talking enthusiastically to Feuilly and Bahorel, hands a blur as they fly around haphazardly.

He walks up to them, nudging Enjolras’ side and receiving a beam in return.

“Taire,” Enjolras says, swaying towards him and snaking a hand that isn’t holding some champagne around his waist, falling unceremoniously into his side. He allows the embrace, just this once in public because there’s so many people here, many of whom are drunk out of their mind, so they won’t notice. And he wants it, wants to touch Enjolras way more than he allows himself to. “I was just talking to Feuilly and Rel about the power of social media in raising awareness of our message.”

“Our message?” His voice comes out far more amused than intended but Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice.

“Uh huh,” he replies, nodding determinedly. “That the world is fucked and we’re gonna fix it.”

“Hear, hear!” Bahorel booms, raising his glass, and Feuilly and Enjolras toast to it, their glasses clashing together and spilling a mix of beer, cider and champagne down their arms.

“Whoops,” Feuilly says belatedly, curiously examining his wet sleeve and Bahorel laughs, throwing his head back.

Enjolras steadies his hand, concentrating hard so it doesn’t wobble. His other hand around Grantaire’s waist has started playing with the hem of his shirt, trying to pull it out from where it’s tucked in.

“How many drinks have you had?” he mumbles in Enjolras’ ear.

Enjolras takes his time to ponder over the question, his hand stopping its endeavour to snake its way up his side, which Grantaire attributes to said pondering taking up all his brain power. “Um, a few,” he says after a moment. “Whenever I finish one, another one just kinda appears in my hand. Like magic.”

“Oh, magic!” Bahorel says, leaning in close to them. “I know magic! I’m a magician, wanna see?”

Grantaire has no idea where this comes from but both Enjolras and Feuilly light up, bouncing on their toes like excitable puppies. It really is quite adorable. That is, until Bahorel pulls out a toy magic stick from his pants and starts waving it around, accidentally smacking Enjolras on the head, who frowns childishly.

Bahorel just laughs, leaning over to kiss the sore better, before pulling back and magicking a bouquet of flowers to appear. He really just pulls it out from his inside suit pocket and Grantaire’s sure that his inebriated state is preventing him from being subtle.

“Monsieur,” he says with a posh accent, handing over the bouquet. “I am ever so sorry, please forgive my rudeness. I shall refrain from whacking your head in future magic shows.”

Enjolras nods magnanimously (or what Grantaire assumes is his best effort—the smile spread across his face ruins the effect), accepting the flowers and nearly dropping his champagne in the process, until Grantaire saves him, taking the glass off him. “I will forgive you in five to ten days,” he says, adopting the same tone as Bahorel, “Grantaire, write that down, I must remember.”

“Of course,” he laughs and Enjolras tightens his grip, pulling them even closer together. His fingers burn where they lay against Grantaire’s hip. “Are you ready to go yet?” he adds, because it’s been nearly two hours now and Enjolras really doesn’t need any more to drink, which he inevitably will if they stay.

Enjolras’ eyes spark brightly and he leans his head in close, an attempt at seduction. “Mm hmm,” he says, biting his lip, and it really shouldn’t work on Grantaire, not when Enjolras is obviously not thinking straight, but he’s hopeless and always will be, “If we can start tomorrow’s plans early.”

Feuilly and Bahorel send them mock scandalised looks, Bahorel bringing his hands up to his cheeks and spilling more of his beer in the process. Grantaire just flips them off and starts pulling Enjolras though the crowd. He spots Courfeyrac on the karaoke machine, belting out some Queen, so instead finds Combeferre, who’s talking with Cosette. Enjolras leans against him the whole time, gripping tight so he doesn’t fall over, giggling into his shoulder and Grantaire can’t bring himself to pull away.

Combeferre and Cosette send them equally amused looks when he says goodbye, Combeferre assuring him that he’ll let Courfeyrac know. He leaves then, dragging Enjolras with him, escaping through the front door and blessedly finding it quiet and empty.

  


Enjolras is still wobbling around on his feet when they make it back to his apartment, so he plants the man in his bed and goes to get a glass of water. When he returns to his room, Enjolras is sitting upright, hands half way down his torso as he tries to undo the buttons of his shirt, lip stuck out in concentration. Grantaire feels a smile take over his face and kneels down in front of him, taking over, and Enjolras spreads his legs so he can fit in between, the act absentminded rather than intentional. He has clearly given up on trying anything.

“You know,” Enjolras says after a moment, quiet, “I was being serious before.” He leans back on his hands, head hanging down as he looks at Grantaire through lidded eyes.

“Hm?” he replies, reaching up to Enjolras’ shoulders to pull off his shirt. Enjolras doesn’t fight him, holding out his hands to help the sleeves slide off his wrists.

“That social media has an undeniable power that is often underutilised,” Enjolras continues after a moment, closing his eyes. Grantaire’s hands still from where they’ve started on Enjolras’ belt and he doesn’t know how to reply, so stays silent, retracting his hands slowly.

Enjolras opens his eyes again, regret flooding them. But also frustration and determination, his bright blue eyes far more clear than they have been all night. “I just—” he sighs, hands coming up to cup Grantaire’s neck, “I understand that you don’t want to, that it’s not _you_ , and while I don’t necessarily agree, I can’t push you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

His hands are caressing his cheeks and he looks heartbroken. Grantaire stands up, staying close.

Enjolras continues, his hands falling to Grantaire’s arms. “I just think that all it would take is one post, and it doesn’t even have to be about us or your sexuality, because that’s between us, it’s private, but something like, I don’t know, showing support for a political candidate or—or coming to one of our protests and taking a photo. It doesn’t have to be more than that, just one post and suddenly millions of people have seen it.”

“Enjolras,” he finally brings himself to say, his tone warning, and Enjolras stands up, pulling their heads close together.

“I know, I know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t ask this of you, I’m sorry. I’m drunk, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You do,” Grantaire says, wary, “You just have no filter.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras concedes, hands moving to wrap around his waist, “but I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you or that I’m only here because of, like, your _influence_ or something.”

“Well, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind until just now,” he says and Enjolras looks alarmed.

“I’m not!” he says quickly and Grantaire has the sudden urge to laugh, but it’s fleeting, gone within a second. “Seriously, I barely knew who you _were_ when we met. I was interested before I truly realised just how popular you were and, if anything, the whole famous thing would be kind of off-putting.”

He pulls back at that and Enjolras groans, hanging his head. “Shit,” he says, “this is all coming out wrong.” He looks back up, his eyes beseeching as they stare into Grantaire’s. “Taire, I _love_ you and would no matter what you did, and I don’t mind, really, that we have to sneak around and I can’t just tell everyone I meet that you’re mine because I get to _be_ with you and that’s all that matters. Forget everything I’ve said.”

“I’m not going to,” he says softly, holding on to Enjolras’ arms. “But it’s okay. We can talk about this more when you’re sober and had some sleep. I don’t want you to resent me.”

“I don’t,” Enjolras whines, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, face buried in his neck. “I could never.”

“I know.” He pats the back of Enjolras’ head, the angle awkward. “We should go to bed now,” he says, pulling back to pick up the abandoned glass of water and pushing it into Enjolras’ hands, who complies, drinking it.

Once they’re in bed, having changed and letting Ziggy in to curl up on the end of his bed, he turns to Enjolras, who is laying on his side, eyes already closed. Grantaire still feels tense, his skin buzzing, dreading the morning, but there’s a well of fondness in him that refuses to be overpowered. “You know,” he says and Enjolras opens his eyes, “that was the first time you’ve told me you love me.”

Enjolras looks confused, eyebrows furrowed. “It is?” he asks, genuinely baffled. “Are you sure?”

He nods.

“Oh,” Enjolras says and he’s starting to fall asleep, his words muddling together as his eyes blink closed for longer and longer each time. “I definitely meant to say it sooner—like months ago. Cause I do. Love you, that is.” He scrunches his face, squinting at Grantaire. “Um, do you?”

He laughs softly, linking their hands together and Enjolras finally closes his eyes properly with a small smile. “Of course, Ange, never doubt that.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says, burrowing into his pillow and squeezing his hand. “I’m going to sleep now.”

Grantaire laughs again, closing his eyes as well.

  


He wakes to whiskers trailing along his face and lightly bats Ziggy away, prompting a small mewl in response. He squints his eyes open, spying the cat sitting next to his face, pupils wide as they stare into him. Ziggy wants breakfast.

“Right,” he says quietly, trying not to disturb Enjolras next to him, but from the sounds of it, the man is dead to the world. Finding out that Enjolras snores (quiet little huffs usually, but occasionally monstrous noises that keep him awake, if he lies in the right position) was one of the best things to happen to him because this infallible human _snores_ and it is the most adorable thing he’s ever witnessed.

He slips out of the covers, shivering as his feet hit the floorboards, and walks slowly towards the door, heading for the laundry where Ziggy’s food and litter are. The cat trots in front of him pompously, tail stuck up, scratching at the laundry door before he’s able to open it. He earns a headbutt in return for filling the bowl with food and pats Ziggy once on the head, making his way back to his room, slipping in silently.

Enjolras is still asleep, a hand stretched across the bed, his curls splayed messily on his pillow. Grantaire slides under the covers, gingerly moving Enjolras’ hand and curls inwards, trying to urge some warmth back into his feet. He reaches for his phone, only to find that it’s flat, having forgotten to charge it last night. He sighs faintly and plugs it in, figuring he can get to it later.

Usually, he would be able to fall straight back to sleep, but last night’s conversation is running through his head and he no longer has the overwhelming exhaustion pulling him to sleep, so it won’t leave, Enjolras’ words playing over and over.

There’s a groan beside him, long and low, limbs stretching out as Enjolras squints into the morning sunlight, eyes opening slowly. His toes press against Grantaire’s calf and he turns around so they’re facing each other, trying to force down the apprehension building low in his gut. Considering how much and how quickly Enjolras drank last night, their conversation may be completely forgotten.

“My head hurts,” Enjolras mumbles into his pillow, a hand half-heartedly coming up to brush the fluffy hair out of his face, but it misses and just hits his nose before giving up and collapsing. Grantaire grins softly, his own hand reaching out to brush the hair away and Enjolras whimpers, blue disappearing as he closes his eyes again. “Why is it so bright?”

“Well, you see the sun sets every night and then rises again every morning, bringing us light and warmth, and it’s being doing the same thing far longer than you’re been alive,” he replies and Enjolras’ hand flicks up, pushing away his own, as he harrumphs, pouting.

Grantaire gets up, going to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some aspirin. Out the window, he can spot a few cameras, which is odd for so early on a Sunday morning, and trepidation rises in him but is promptly forgotten when Enjolras groans again from his room. He returns, placing the water and aspirin on the bedside table next to the ball of golden curls, all he can see of Enjolras, who has cocooned himself in the covers, presumably to block out the sunlight.

“Drink, Ange,” he says, crawling back into bed and praying he can stay there for longer this time. He pries the covers away from Enjolras, ignoring the whine that follows.

Enjolras eventually pulls himself into a sitting position, taking the water and aspiring, downing them quickly. He rolls his head along the bedhead, looking at Grantaire with pitiful eyes, his pout still in place.

He snickers and Enjolras glares.

“It’s your own fault,” he says. “You chose to drink that much last night.”

“Like I said,” Enjolras replies, his words coming out muddled with sleep, “Magic. I had no say in the matter.”

Right, so he does remember last night. Grantaire’s insides clench and he looks away, out the window that faces towards the communal courtyard. The tops of the trees are the only thing he can see from this angle, bright green and a very pleasant distraction.

There’s a pressure on his hand and he looks down to see Enjolras has grabbed it, squeezing. “I’m sorry,” he says, tugging on their hands, forcing Grantaire to look up. “Again. I shouldn’t have asked you to do anything and it was inconsiderate of me to make you feel like you have to worry about that stuff. You don’t ever have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with and I want you to know that.” His words are still slightly slurred, but he’s waking up more and more by the minute, his mouth turned downward and a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.

Grantaire brings their linked hands up, reaching over Enjolras’ shoulders and resting there, hugging him. Enjolras eases into his side, a soft noise escaping him. “It’s okay,” Grantaire says, “I’ve—I’ve been thinking I should lately. Tell people about us, that is.”

Enjolras looks up, a flutter of a smile appearing.

“Not yet, of course,” he hastily adds but the smile doesn’t stop, just growing wider. “Like, I have to work up to it and I really don’t know the best way to do it, but yeah. I guess I’m ready.”

Enjolras is suddenly on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, far more awake than a moment ago. He’s looking down at Grantaire in bewilderment, eyes shining. “Really?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replies in the same tone. He can feel that he’s grinning too, wild and unrestrained.

“Good,” Enjolras replies simply, leaning down and kissing him soundly. It’s hungry and fervent, knocking the breathe out of him, but he pushes back with as much intensity, hands coming up to the sides of Enjolras’ face.

They pull away eventually, when breathing becomes a necessity and Enjolras sends him a blinding grin. “It sounds selfish,” he exhales, hand brushing the curls out of Grantaire’s eyes and he bites his lip, uncharacteristically self-conscious, “but I kind of want people to know you’re mine.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Possessive, are we?”

“It’s a little tiring reading about your latest tryst every week. Also, people at work have kind of figured out that he know each other and they keep on asking me all these questions, which is particularly annoying when they ask whether I can set the two of you up.”

This is news to Grantaire. “Um, they do?” he asks, slightly alarmed.

Enjolras just glowers playfully, poking him in the chest. “It’s your fault. You insist on sending me messages all day and they _distract_ me and then they wonder who I’m talking to because nothing distracts me.”

“So they think we’re friends?” he says cautiously and Enjolras nods.

“Louise hasn’t stopped bugging me for a date the past two weeks, it’s getting quite repetitive.”

Enjolras seems to be oblivious to his panic, and oh, he thought he was ready for this, to tell people, but _one_ workplace knows they’re friends and he’s a mess. He closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. His phone vibrates, finally enough charge in it to turn on, but he ignores it, figuring no one important would be trying to contact him this early in the morning, possibly only Courfeyrac because he was known for excessively drunk texting.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks, finally clicking that something is wrong. He removes himself from Grantaire’s lap, sitting cross-legged, facing him.

“We may have to wait a while before we tell people,” he answers, voice tight.

Enjolras grabs his hand. “Whenever you’re ready.” He’s smiling again, softer, and he leans over to kiss Grantaire’s cheek. “I love you,” he says when he pulls back.

Grantaire lets out a helpless laugh, vaguely remembering a time when he was fighting this, not wanting to cause himself pain, when any pain is worth the feeling of elation and rightness inside him now.

Enjolras’ phone buzzes then and he leans over to grab it. Grantaire is distracted by Ziggy jumping on the end of his bed with a mewl, walking up to bump his head against his leg, purring loudly when Grantaire pets him.

“Oh no,” Enjolras exhales, seemingly involuntary, staring down at his phone. He looks up at Grantaire, lips pressed together.

“What?” Grantaire asks, his lungs constricting. He makes a grabbing motion for the phone and Enjolras hands it over, his body wrought with apprehension.

It’s open on an article, a photo taking up the screen. A photo of the both of them in their clothes from last night because it was _taken_ last night when Grantaire was trying to get Enjolras home without the both of them falling on their asses. Enjolras’ arm is wrapped around his waist, the treacherous hand still beneath his shirt and he’s looking at Grantaire with such an impossibly fond look that if this photo were taken in any other circumstance, he would love it. His own face looks exasperated, which he was, but is full of undeniable love.

He scrolls down, not wanting to, but also unable to stop himself from reading.

_It seems that R, 25, skyrocketing to fame after his single Black Sky, has been holding out on us. He has been quiet on any romantic relationships ever since the disastrous fall-out with fellow singer, Floreal, 23, nearly three years ago (for a full rundown, click here) and while there have been many speculations over the years of prospective girlfriends, none have been officially confirmed by the man himself. _

_Until last night that is, when he was spotted at one of Courfeyrac’s (24, drummer for R and renowned player) infamous parties, with a blonde beauty hanging off his shoulder. A blonde beauty who was a man._

_Does this mean that R has been lying to us and is secretly gay? That poor Floreal was a beard the whole time…_

He stops reading, scrolling through to the end. There’s another photo, captured as they were entering his apartment lobby. Enjolras is still wrapped around him, but this time he is kissing Grantaire’s cheek. It’s far more incriminating and a voice in the back of his head wonders why they didn’t use that one for the start of the article, but then an even louder voice reminds him that there are far more pressing issues to deal with at the moment.

“Right,” he says into the mounting silence. The phone blurs in front of his eyes, fingers shaking uncontrollably.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just sitting across from him, hands clenching and releasing, over and over. Grantaire forces himself to take in a deep breath, nothing absently that it is getting harder to do so, his lungs feeling as though they’re compressed, his body vibrating beneath his skin.

“Right, this is…” he tries again but doesn’t know how to finish.

“Not good,” Enjolras fills in quietly and he nods, looking away, out the window. He suddenly remembers the paparazzi out on the street he noticed earlier and it clicks why they’re here.

His mind is racing, going through all the things he needs to do, the people he needs to talk to, but it’s all pushed aside by the overwhelming thought that he’s been _outed_. The secret’s out, he didn’t have a say in the matter and they’ve dragged Enjolras into it without even knowing who he is. The small voice in his head points out that he hasn’t even been outed _correctly_.

“Okay. Okay,” he says, shaking his head in an attempt to rid his mind of the racing thoughts. Figure it out now, panic later. “First off, you can’t leave, I saw paparazzi outside earlier, so you’re stuck here indefinitely.”

When he looks up, Enjolras is staring at him with sorrowful eyes, the guilt palpable.

“No,” he says quickly, pointing at him. “No, you’re not allowed to feel responsible. This is not your fault.”

“But I was drunk—” Enjolras counters, anger sparking, but Grantaire cuts him off.

“And I could’ve asked anyone else to get you come. Could have insisted that you not touch me. We’re not to blame here.” He doesn’t completely believe it himself because if he had just been more _careful_ they wouldn’t be here.

Enjolras huffs out a breath, eyes narrowed, but relents, muttering a petulant, “Fine.”

They fall into silence. Deafening, compounding silence because Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. The photos won’t leave his mind, burnt onto the insides of his eyelids whenever he closes them, taunting him. He takes in a deep breath, but it’s sharp, refusing to come out, so he takes another, but they just won’t come, adamantly remaining stuck in the bottom of his lungs.

_Oh,_ he thinks, verging on wry, _we’re panicking now, not later._ His hands come up to the side of his head, pulling on his curls, legs pulled to his chest. His cheeks are wet, which he comprehends are tears but he _never_ cries, which only makes more tears come, filling up his eyes until he can’t see, spilling over and streaming down. He lets out a sob, ugly and intrusive in the growing silence, abruptly breaking it.

A hand pulls away his own from his face, Enjolras appearing in front of him, his own eyes red, brimming with tears and that’s not allowed because Grantaire abhors the thought of this beautiful person feeling any sort of pain. Another sob escapes him, tearing through him, and he folds in on himself even further, head hanging between his knees.

Enjolras settles next to him, an arm wrapping around him and he curls towards him, head tucked under Enjolras’ chin, trying in vain to take a breath without shuddering.

“It’s just—” he says, after they’ve sat in silence for God knows how long—it could have been anywhere between two minutes or twenty—and the sobs finally subside, allowing him to fill his lungs to their entirety with much needed oxygen. Enjolras remains silent against him.

“It’s just not _fair_ ,” he continues, wiping away snot and releasing himself from Enjolras in search of a tissue, Enjolras handing one over to him before he can get very far. His voice is thick, hoarse from the panic. “This should be something that _I_ decide to do. Under my terms and when I want to, but now they’ve taken that away from me. They’ve _outed_ me and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Of course there’s something you can do about it,” Enjolras says, a flurry of emotions racing behind his eyes.

“A part of me doesn’t even mind that it’s out there, but it wasn’t my decision and I just can’t get _past_ that.”

“And you shouldn’t have to—”

There’s a loud noise from the hallway before Enjolras can continue and he vaguely registers the sound of the front door opening and an “oof!” in a voice that is definitely Courfeyrac’s. Enjolras looks startled, but Grantaire is not surprised in the least. Courfeyrac was given a key for emergencies, which was promptly forgotten, but if anything is considered an emergency, it would be now.

Courfeyrac storms into his room, Combeferre appearing behind him, far more calm, giving Grantaire a tight smile, his eyes troubled.

“You, sir,” Courfeyrac says, eyes narrowed, hand pointed at him, “need to answer your fucking phone.”

Enjolras lets out a surprised chortle, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. Grantaire realises that he never got to his phone and that there are probably multiple messages he needs to respond to.

Courfeyrac drops his hand, demeaner changing completely when he takes in Grantaire’s red eyes and blotchy face. He scampers across the room, falling into Grantaire’s lap, who moves his legs to make room just in time. Arms wrap around him and Courfeyrac buries his face in his shoulder, muttering over and over, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Grantaire pries him away so they’re facing each other. Combeferre places himself on the end of the bed, sharing a silent conversation with Enjolras.

“It’s okay,” he says to Courfeyrac.

“No, it’s not, it’s awful,” Courfeyrac pouts at him, lip trembling. His hand comes up to the side of Grantaire’s face, pushing away curls. “It’s awful and gross and I can’t _believe_ they actually did it. Who in their right mind would think that’s okay? Who approved that shit?” Courfeyrac’s voice starts to rise and he jumps off Grantaire, pacing around the room. “I’m going to go down to every place that ran the story—I have connections, I can get it—and I’m going to punch the shit out of whoever wrote something. And who agreed to it. _And_ who took the photos. It’s disgusting!”

Combeferre snorts into the following silence. “Sorry,” he says, only a touch sheepish as he casts an amused expression to Courfeyrac. “You’re adorable when mad and I can’t see you punching the shit out of someone.”

And just like that, the tension eases out of the room. Courfeyrac crosses his arms, pouting again, but it’s far more relaxed, his lips tugging up involuntarily. Grantaire snorts, the sound escaping him with a smile.

“I’ll take Bahorel and Éponine with me,” Courfeyrac counters, sitting down and falling into Combeferre’s side.

Enjolras tilts his head, contemplating. “Jehan, too. Everyone’s scared of Jehan.”

Courfeyrac hums his approval and then fixes Grantaire with a look, reaching out to grab his ankle. “How are you?” he asks, head titled, eyes imploring.

“I don’t know,” he replies, because how is he supposed to know yet? He’s barely had time to comprehend anything. “Mad, frustrated, but also,” he quickly glances at Enjolras, “there’s a tiny part of me that’s kind of relieved, I guess?”

Courfeyrac gives him an inquisitive look.

“Like,” he continues, “it’s not _fair._ I didn’t get to choose how it happened, or when I wanted to do it, but there’s almost this,” he gestures vaguely, “weight lifted because I no longer have to worry about that stuff. Now I all have to deal with is the backlash, not that I’m looking forward to that.”

Courfeyrac scrunches his nose up. “It’s not pretty,” he says, disgust lacing his words. “All of the articles are gross—what have you seen so far?”

“Just one, don’t even know who.” He casts a questioning look to Enjolras, who supplies the name, some magazine that he learnt long ago to never read.

“That one’s not even that bad, comparatively,” Combeferre grimaces, the hand not wrapped around Courfeyrac coming up to scratch his face. “Some of them are _awful_. Incredibly demeaning. I’m surprised they were allowed to publish what they said.”

Grantaire’s tempted to reach for his phone, to see what people are saying, but Enjolras shakes his head minutely, glowering, and he knows he should leave it for now.

“You’re trending on twitter,” Courfeyrac adds, tone light which he greatly appreciates. “And only a minority of them are negative, which is good considering, well, trolls.”

He exhales a laugh and falls back into the bedhead, looking over to Enjolras. His minds feels all jumbled, thoughts whirring around, so many that he can’t think properly and he just wishes he could go back to sleep and forget this all happened. He remembers that he and Enjolras had _plans_ today (very exciting plans that were definitely not going to eventuate now that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were there) and suddenly wants to be along for a moment.

Enjolras shifts to sit properly beside him, pressed together from shoulders to hips. He links their fingers, bringing them up to press a kiss to the back of Grantaire’s hand.

He looks back to Courfeyrac, who is grinning at him, smug. He kicks him lightly in the calf, the only place he can reach.

“What are we going to do?” he sighs, overwhelmingly tired.

“Well,” Courfeyrac stands up, hands on hips and game-face on. “Ferre and I are going to grab you some breakfast because I’m assuming you haven’t eaten and you deserve fresh pastries and overly expensive, but still delicious, coffee. _You_ are going to stay here and write an Instagram post and send it to Valjean.”

“You think that’ll work?” It seems to simple, just one post to explain everything.

“It’s a good start. You don’t keep everyone waiting, you can begin to claim the story for yourself, instead of allowing the media to run with it for too long, _and_ ,” an evil grin appears, Courfeyrac’s voice far too amused, “you can post an adorably cute photo of the two of you.”

“Do we have any of those?”

“I’ve got plenty, trust me. I’ll start sending them through.” Courfeyrac pulls out his phone as he starts walking towards the door, and sure enough, Grantaire’s phone starts lighting up with messages of photos from him, including one from just then, which he didn’t even realise was taken.

Combeferre stands as well, giving him a searching look. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, hands resting in his pockets.

“Yes,” he replies, shooing him, and Combeferre relents, following Courfeyrac out.

When he hears the faint sound of the door closing, he turns to Enjolras, bright eyes meeting his. There’s a fire burning in them, anger and frustration and anguish rolled into one, pouring off him in waves.

But Enjolras doesn’t say anything, even though the urge to shout is so obviously on the tip of his tongue, wanting to condemn and criticise the media and their insistent need to dig into private lives. Instead he gives Grantaire a tired smile, his hair a mess of curls because they haven’t really gotten up yet. All this has happened in his bed. Grantaire’s whole world has been turned upside down before nine o’clock in the morning, while he’s sitting there in only a pair of boxers, his stomach empty.

“I am way too hungover for this,” Enjolras eventually says with a groan, dispelling Grantaire’s rising anxiety and he lets out a breathless laugh, falling into Enjolras’ side and picking up his phone to look through the growing choice of photos from Courfeyrac.

  


  


[In the photo, Grantaire is standing behind Enjolras, arms draped around his shoulders. Enjolras is resting his hands on them, his hair pulled up into a bun, curls falling out. Grantaire’s own hair is a mess and he has stubble growing, halfway to a beard. They’re both looking off camera, laughing at something, their grins wide and eyes bright.]

_The day has barely started and it’s already been too much of a whirlwind for me to comprehend anything. I promise, I’ll properly explain things in the near future, but right now my brain is so overwhelmed that I can barely think straight (pun intended)._

_For now, here’s Enjolras, the man who walked into my life six months ago and irrevocably changed it, of which I cannot complain in the slightest._

_Oh, and for clarification, I’m bisexual._

  


  


The backlash isn’t as bad as Grantaire expected and he half wonders why he was so scared in the first place. After a few hours, he opens up his Instagram post and scrolls through the comments—they are so astoundingly supportive that he tears up, Enjolras clutching his hand beside him. He doesn’t bother with reading any more articles and when he asks Combeferre to give him a rundown of them instead, he’s thankful for that decision.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac stay until late in the evening, leaving after a ten minute hug from Courfeyrac and a promise to be back soon from Combeferre. Enjolras has to leave the following morning because he still has an internship and a boss to impress within all this mess.

He spends the day burrowed away in the makeshift studio he’s set up for himself, perfecting the songs that he’s been working on (trying valiantly to recall all Jehan’s advice) and even tentatively starting a new one that’s bouncing around his head. Nothing like traumatic events to inspire you.

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta bombard him late in the afternoon, filling his kitchen with music and chatter and mouth-watering smells, making far too much food for the four of them which works out perfectly when everyone else starts turning up, as though they planned it without Grantaire’s knowledge (which irks him for less than a second because this _is_ his apartment, but being surrounded by his friends does unimaginably good things for his state of mind).

Éponine’s the next to arrive, dragging Gavroche along with her, who punches his shoulder and curses the media, rather like how Enjolras does, which only slightly concerns him. Cosette and Marius turn up with freshly made caramel choc-chip cookies that melt in his mouth and he thanks them profusely, worshipping them at their feet. The door opens with a bang when Bahorel enters, Feuilly rolling his eyes behind him and checking there’s no lasting damage. Bahorel wraps him in a hug that’s so tight, he thinks he feels a rib crack but still readily returns it. When Jehan arrives with Courfeyrac in tow, he’s given a succulent, with the sentiment that a new beginning should be symbolised with new life. He places it on the windowsill and vows in his head to actually look after it.

Enjolras and Combeferre are the last to arrive, Combeferre giving him a pat on the shoulder as he walks past. Enjolras stays in the doorway for a moment, studying his face and looking infinitely tired.

“Hey, Taire,” he eventually says, stepping close so the door can be closed. “How was your day?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I’ve had better.”

Enjolras hums, leaning forward to rest his head on his shoulder, talking into his neck. “No one would leave me alone at work,” he says, muffled and Grantaire wraps his arms around his waist.

“I can imagine. Talk of the town.”

Enjolras snorts, lifting his head. “At least Louise will stop begging me to set you up.”

Grantaire lets out a low chuckle, a hand coming up to card through blonde curls. Enjolras closes his eyes, smiling softly.

There’s a loud bang from the kitchen at the same time that Courfeyrac shouts from the living room, calling for Enjolras impatiently. Enjolras releases a long-suffering sigh, his lips twitching in amusement as he squeezes his hand once and makes his was to Courfeyrac, Grantaire venturing to find the source of noise from the kitchen.

Joly and Bossuet are the only ones there when he enters (which is more than enough to figure out what caused the bang), sauce splattered over the kitchen counter and themselves. Bossuet sends him an apologetic look as Joly fusses over his hand, which is blisteringly red.

“Seriously,” he says, “I doubt you two could survive a day by yourselves without Chetta.”

“There’s currently no evidence to the contrary,” Joly quips with a grin as he thrusts Bossuet’s hand under some running water.

“We really do try,” Bossuet says, “but there is a reason why she never lets us cook without her.”

“Together at least—individually isn’t a total disaster, usually.”

“I _do_ have a blanket ban on being in the kitchen alone,” Bossuet amends, holding up a finger. “Not even to boil the kettle,” he adds mournfully.

A voice tsks from behind him, Musichetta muttering under her breath, “Gone for _two_ minutes.” She passes by Grantaire, giving him a kiss on the cheek on the way and grabbing a cloth to clean up the mess. She examines the large pot sitting on the stove, giving it a stir with a spoon.

“Still good,” she decides and sends a smile to Grantaire. “Should we act like the real adults we’re meant to be and eat at the dining table?”

There’s a struggle to fit fourteen people around a table meant for eight until Courfeyrac fearlessly volunteers (his words) to sit on Combeferre’s lap and somehow everyone is able to find a spot. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta fit themselves onto two chairs, Bahorel is relegated to a corner of the table because he is deemed too broad and would take up too much room, and Feuilly sits on the edge when they realise there aren’t enough chairs. Enjolras is pressed against his side, allowing room for Courfeyrac’s legs on his other side, and the room is loud and joyous, filling him with warmth.

Of course, the topic eventually turns political between everyone but he doesn’t mind because he rarely gets to witness the official meetings they have started up and he grabs at the opportunity to watch Enjolras light up from the inside with indignation and passion as he rants furiously with Feuilly.

Grantaire is so exhausted by the time everyone leaves, that he falls into bed as soon as the door closes behind Enjolras, sleeping so soundly he almost forget there’s something to worry about when he wakes up in the morning.

  


It’s a few days after The Incident (Courfeyrac has a habit of capitalising things and it’s caught on) when he finally builds the courage to leave his apartment, going straight to Valjean’s office to go over everything in person.

“How are you?” is the first thing the old may says to him when he sits down in his office. It’s not a generic question, but purposeful, Valjean leaning forward on both elbows and pining him with a look that means he won’t accept a bullshit answer.

“Uh, alright, actually,” he replies, shifting awkwardly. “Mostly just been trying to avoid the tabloids and distract myself.”

Valjean nods understandingly. “I’m sorry,” he says, his deep voice kind. “It’s a horrible thing to go through.”

Grantaire shrugs—he’s taken the time to come to terms with it and it’s bothering him less and less every day. He tells Valjean so, adding, “I—I think it’s… good that it’s happened, in a way.”

“How so?”

“Well, first off, I can actually release the songs I’ve been working on with some sort of context. But also, I guess, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be and now it’s out there, I can move on from this.”

Valjean hums, fingers laced together under his chin, elbows resting on the desk. “Speaking of your album…” he prompts.

“I’ve been working on it a lot more,” Grantaire says, sitting up with enthusiasm. He laughs softly, “I’ve had a lot of inspiration. I think I’m ready to start getting in the studio. Properly, with Courf, Ep and Rel and work on the songs together. They’re nearly there, just need a bit more tweaking.”

“Perfect,” Valjean claps his hands once, spreading them wide. “I’ll start organising everything. This album can be your response, a… comeback, for a lack of a better description.”

“Finally the real, genuine me,” he adds, a grin starting to take over his face.

Valjean keeps him for another hour, going over the logistics of everything—of recording, of ideas for the album cover, of releasing it and the interviews and press tours that follow. He mentions a timeline of a few months until release and then by this time next year, the possibility of him being on tour, leaving him vibrating with anticipation.

He feels rejuvenated by the time he leaves, a bounce in his step as he jumps down the stairs onto the street. He stops short when he looks up.

Enjolras is leaning against a lamppost, hands resting in his pockets. The sun is shining in his hair, lighting him up and making his ocean blue eyes gleam with affection. Grantaire’s reminded of when Enjolras met him here last time, months ago, Combeferre in tow. Anxiety doesn’t seize him this time, though. Instead, an unimaginable warmth rushes through him as his eyes run up and down the man in front of him.

“How’d you know I was here?” he asks, squinting into the blinding sun. Or maybe it’s Enjolras, he can’t tell.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras replies, not moving. He glances across the road, and Grantaire follows his eyes, spotting some paparazzi clicking away. They’ve learnt their lesson from coming too close to the studio and being forced back by security one too many times, so they stay where they are, taking shots in between passing cars. “Is this okay?” Enjolras ask, pulling his attention back.

Grantaire doesn’t need to consider his answer. He grins, wide and free as he holds out a hand. Enjolras releases an infinitesimal breath, a smile taking over his own face as he steps forward, hand coming out to latch on to his.

Grantaire squeezes once. Their palms are immediately sweaty because it’s the start of summer and getting warmer every day and maybe he actually is nervous, the clicking of the cameras still audible despite the road and cars between them.

But he doesn’t care. He can do this now. He doesn’t have to hide the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to him anymore and his heart feels so unimaginably full, like he could burst with the amount of love he holds for Enjolras and what his life has become.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Grantaire asks as Enjolras starts leading him down the path.

“Oh,” Enjolras replies, eyes fixed ahead but a smile is playing across his lips as he tries to act nonchalant, “Lamarque gave me the promotion and said I could leave early.”

“Wait, really?” he asks, a smile taking over his face.

“Mm hmm,” Enjolras replies, raising an eyebrow. “And I thought we could celebrate by actually going out for once—now that we can.”

Grantaire just grins even wider, nudging him. “Sounds like a plan.”

  


One Year Later

The album, of course, isn’t _just_ about Enjolras. He’s made too many friends and memories and moments to be captured for them to be left out. He’s proud of the album, more than his other ones, and for some reason, somehow, his fans seem to like it more as well, blowing up his career even further and sending him on a tour that’s longer and goes to places he’s never been before. He has a bigger band, a bigger tour bus, is playing in bigger stadiums with packed audience, performing in each city multiple nights and he’s exhausted after every single one, but thriving and feeling as though he could take on the world.

His fans particularly like the songs that are obviously about Enjolras, which is really no surprise.

“So,” he says into the microphone, tugging on one of his earpieces. The crowd cheers back at him and the grins slips onto his face without permission. “This next song you may know. It’s, uh, about someone in my life that means a fair amount to me.”

Éponine scoffs, sharing a look with Bahorel across the stage, who rolls his eyes, except it’s with his whole head and obviously played up.

The crowd responds, laughing and cheering.

“Okay, okay, he means everything to me and I’m forever grateful for the day he waltzed into my life,” he amends. There’s a bang from the drums behind him and he motions towards it with a flourish, adding, “Which we have Courfeyrac to thank for, of course.”

That’s the cue and the pianist starts the opening chords of the song, the crowd responding immediately with a deafening roar.

“This night in particular is special, actually,” he continues as the other instruments join in one by one, slowly building. “First off, it’s officially been eighteen months, which is pretty wild to think about. Second…” he pauses, his smile growing on its own accord as he pictures the murderous glare Enjolras is probably sending him right now. “He’s in the audience tonight. I imagine he’s hiding himself right now, so finding him is pointless, he’s gotten quite good at doing so. We have a fair amount of practice.”

The crowd is beyond crazy by now, cheering and crying so loudly he can’t hear himself think and his mouth hurts from smiling for so long and so widely.

“So, Ange,” he says out to the crowd. He doesn’t know where Enjolras is, didn’t want to know because he knows himself too well and would have spent the whole concert singing to the one spot. “This one’s for you. Enjoy.”

  


_I tried Achilles but it wasn’t quite right  
Next was Apollo but it just won’t fit  
Because you’re your own God  
And nothing can compare_

Philtatos by R

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thank-you for reading all 25 000 words. This has been a two month process and I've written certain parts about ten different times and the whole thing twice, so by this point I know it back to front and am kind of sick of it? And I feel as though i've put so much into this that it's really weird that it's done and i'm no longer gonna be working on it. Hopefully, as a fresh viewer, you enjoyed it. 
> 
> The lyrics at the end are mine which is why they're so cheesy and the title of the song, again, is from the Song of Achilles and means 'beloved'. 
> 
> A few headcannons/random things that didn't make it in because it's already incredibly long and felt awkward to fit in:  
> • Enj is actually vegetarian/vegan majority of the time, but allows himself the treat of meat occasionally, as he eats bacon at one point in the fic. It’s my own personal belief that the idea of eating meat in itself isn’t actually bad, but the mass production of meat is cruel to animals and detrimental to the environment, and I like to thrust my own beliefs on to characters.  
> • That scene where Enj is suggesting they sleep together while drunk and R reacts positively to it—don’t worry, he was never going to act on that, I just didn’t know how to add that without making the writing clunky.  
> • R meets Joly and Bossuet when Boss literally falls on top of him in the park one day (before he was famous) and then took them to the café he worked at because they were instant friends, which introduces them to Musichetta (who he already knew as she worked there too). He didn’t plan them meeting, but knew instantly it was right  
> • I honestly still haven’t decided if Cosette and Marius are together in this?? Cause I also love Cosette/Eponine and possibly one day it could just end of being the three of them together. Again, I just didn’t have space to fit them in.  
> • Fun fact: I’m pretty sure Marius has no speaking lines in this at all even though I love him. Gavroche doesn’t either, but he’s literally there for a line, so.  
> • I tried to make their personalities clear through their texting habits? Like Enj is full punctuation, correct spelling and full paragraphs. R (like me) is no punctuation but doesn’t really use ‘texting language’, whereas Courf goes full out with texting lingo and thinks punctuation is the devils invention.  
> • Another personal headcannon for me generally (especially in college fics) is that Enj and R don’t get together until after they’ve actually mellowed down. Like I think they both need time to realise who they are and be less full-on about things (like Enj’s cruelty and R’s drinking) before they can even begin to think about being in a relationship, so in this fic they meet after that personal development and can actually work well together.  
> • It wasn’t obvious and mainly just for my own satisfaction, but when R says ‘sounds like a plan’ in the final scene it’s a call back to Enj texting that when they were organising their first date *cue my own awwww because they're so cute*  
> • Enj is definitely the only one that can call R Taire and its usually only in private (unless he’s drunk, as is the case in the fic)  
> • Drunk Enj is my fave Enj  
> • Oh, the other day when I was doing actually study like I’m meant to, I accidentally wrote ‘Enjolras’ instead of ‘English’ because I’ve been working on this for so long and laughed myself into tears :D
> 
> Also, a list of words that were used way too often: because, smiles, realises, eyes, valiant, squeezes, laughs. Essentially, I just like writing about them being happy and have an obsession with Enjolras' eyes (much like R). 
> 
> And this end note is incredibly long because i can't stop myself from writing :/
> 
> Anyway! I hope you enjoyed, this was me trying to cope with university stress and the whole quarantine thing and I'm really proud with how it turned out. 
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment. Every comment makes me smile like an idiot and feel free to start a conversation because I have a lot of feelings about these characters :')


End file.
